Three Days in a Nightmare
by Terry
Summary: The events before, during and after the collapse of Raccoon City during the spill of the T Virus. Features an original cast. Read and review. Now with updated author's note.
1. Prologue

Three Days In A Nightmare  
  
Prologue  
  
October 1, 1998  
5:30 PM  
Raccoon City  
  
Dusk had just begun to fall upon the small mid western American suburb of Raccoon City. The sky was painted a deep orange-red as the golden giant that was the sun drifted lazily from its throne high among the clouds. Its last pale rays fell across buildings and houses many darkened and abandoned. Even more appeared to have been looted and ransacked, displaying shattered windows and doors that hung limply on their broken hinges. The sun's dying beams shed illumination on the asphalt streets where the battered, bullet-riddled remains of cars lay scattered haphazardly like a careless child's toys. Numerous vehicles sat parked on the sidewalks, wrapped around lampposts or implanted in the sides of office buildings and stores, slowly burning. The sun continued to fall, its gleaming rays chased after it, spreading light on the four police barricades located in the city's north, south, east and west ends. The barricades consisted of black and blue squad cars, SWAT vans, pylons, concrete walls, sandbags and wooden barriers reading "POLICE". All were arranged in a straight line across the streets to prevent any possibility of entry or exit.  
Behind the massive blockades of concrete and steel stood the men and women of the 8th, 10th, and 24th precients. Standing behind the barricades they had been ordered to create, the officers looked out sadly at the frightening necropolis their city was rapidly degenerating into. Clutching their weapons tighter in shaky, clammy hands the police continued to scan the horizon for any threats.  
Sinking even further out of view, its yellow beams struggling to provide any illumination at all, the sun shed light on one last gruesome sight before falling bellow the skyline. Laying in the streets, on the concrete sidewalks and the porches of the small, cosy houses were bodies. Human bodies. The life in all of them had been extinguished, now they these citizens lay dead, testament to the growing terror being birthed in Raccoon City. Bullet holes had torn apart many of these people while others had been run over in the blind panic of frightened drivers. The majority of them though, had been trampled to death by their fellow man. Blood and fear ran thick in the streets of Raccoon. Death hid in the shadows but his work was visible everywhere one looked.  
At long last the sun was gone. Its light replaced by an errie darkness and an even more chilling silence. A single, lonely gust of wind swept through the urban nightmare, grabbing a scrunched up copy of the local newspaper, The Raccoon Times. The paper was sent rolling and tumbling through the air before colliding with the left wall of the post office building, and smoothing itself out, showing the week-old headline for all to see: "Mysterious Disease Continues to Spread, Fear and Panic Mount."  
Like the sun's bright light, the wind's howl died out, replaced by a sound a few miles distant from the city. The low, dull, gentle sound of the air being sliced. The sound of a helicopter. 


	2. Rangers Lead The Way

Chapter 1: Rangers Lead The Way  
  
October 1, 1998  
6:00 PM  
Outskirts of Raccoon City  
  
High in the night sky and only a few miles outside of Raccoon, four sleek Black Hawk helicopters sped towards the city. Each choppper carried a company of Army Rangers twenty men strong. The troopers waited patiently in the cabins of the aircraft, decked out in full combat gear. Kevlar helmets rested securely over each man's head. Dark brown-green camouflage jackets and cargo pants covered their bodies, concealing the heavy flak jackets the soldiers wore beneath. Black combat boots rested squarely on the vibrating floor of the Black Hawk. Slung over their backs were sturdy packs containing everything from emergency flares to emergency rations. Held firmly in two gloved hands was the Ranger's primary weapon: a fully loaded M4 assault rifle.  
Lieutenant Zeke Wilcott eased forward in his seat and anxiously tightened his grip around the rifle. Deep in his gut he could feel the butterflies stirring as they always did before each mission. Zeke reached up and adjusted the helmet atop his short brown hair then wiped the sweat from his brow. 'Damn thing is too stuffy!"He thought irritably, looking around the cabin.  
Zeke Wilcott's face was unnaturally youthful, belying his thirty-five years by about ten. His face (young looking or not) was just as unreadable and apparently relaxed as the other members of his chalk, save for one small difference. The lieutenant's brown eyes seemed to hide heavy troubles within their depths. The Ranger tried to dismiss the unpleasant thoughts running through his head, convincing himself that he was just worrying like always but the thoughts and feelings continued to bother him. 'I might as well face it,' his mind mused, 'I'm not just worried this time. I'm not just worried like I always am about every mission. This time I'm scared too. I'm scared because you know when the cops apply to the army for help and the army responds by sending one of its best elite units to handle the situation something seriously messed up must be going on in that city. It means that an entire city of cops can't handle whatever is going on and our superiors seem to think they're right. I don't even want to think about all the rumours I've been hearing about Raccoon City on CNN either. Stuff like just simply does not happen anywhere.'  
All the trooper had heard about on the news lately was the strange occurrences going on in the city his unit was headed for tonight. He had sat in his moderately sized living room and watched as the newscaster explained the turmoil gripping Raccoon City. The residents had mysteriously contracted some unknown skin disease that was reported to bear some similarities to the Marburg virus. This unknown illness had already infected a good deal of the city's populous and there was still no progress in finding a cure for the sick. Raccoon City had been placed under quarantine, completely sealed off from the public by barricades erected by the local law enforcement. Scientists and doctors were said to be working around the clock but were having little luck in identifying the disease let alone coming up with an anti-toxin. The reporters assured the public that while minor looting had taken place the authorities had the situation well in hand and, while the citizens in Raccoon were no doubt frightened, they were far from resorting to anarchy. 'Which is total horse shit,' Zeke thought, nervously chewing on the inside of his cheek, 'otherwise we wouldn't need to be here right now.'  
Indeed, Lieutenant Wilcott was scared but he was not about to let his fear seep out. Not infront of these people at least. A Ranger of his high rank was expected to be a leader no matter what the situation and that meant keeping your worries and bad feelings to yourself. If anything happened to the captain Zeke would be the next in command. Others would look to him to know what to do and issue orders. Seeing their commander full of fright and apprehension would not do anyone any good. It was a hard responsibility to bear, having the lives of nineteen other men depend on your judgement, and one the lieutenant would be glad not to carry. He had been lucky so far, in all ten missions his chalk had been out on, he had never once been forced to assume command. It wasn't a confidence issue for Zeke, he knew he was a good soldier as all the men in his family had been, he just didn't know if he could live with himself if anything happened to the men under his command.  
Pulling himself from his gloomy thoughts, Wilcott looked over the bench on the opposite side of the cabin and spotted his good friend Sergeant Wesley Creeks. Wes had been his pal since grade school and when Zeke told him about his decision to enlist the younger man, by two years, refused to let his friend go off to boot camp without someone to watch his back. Wesley and Zeke had graduate at the top of their class and made it into the Army Rangers together. The lieutenant had to admit that without Wes' help he probably would have met his end more than once by now. Sensing eyes on him Sergeant Creeks glanced up at his comrade and, seeing the hints of anxiety in his eyes, gave the thumbs up and slapped a goofy grin on his face, forcing Zeke to chuckle and return the sign.  
Wesley Creeks was of British descent and made no attempts to hide his heritage among his American companions. When Wes had announced his plans to enlist as well, Zeke was apprehensive, worried that the other soldiers might give him a hard time for being a Brit. He was quickly proven wrong though, as Wesley's tireless sense of humour and (when the occasion called for it) professionalism earned him many friends among the other troopers. The sergeant was a sarcastic joker who had little care for rules and regulations, as such he insisted on wearing his light brown hair long, shaggy and growing a thin, well-groomed beard. Wesley's bright green eyes were always alive with mirth and the belief that everything was going to be ok provided you were willing to just bloody wait long enough.  
Sitting next to Wesley on the bench was his exact opposite, in both appearance and personality, Captain Curtis Sullivan. The Ranger captain was the epitome of the hard ass officer. He was well-built, tall, stern-faced had had an icy blue stare that froze any new private in his or her steps. Unlike Sergeant Creeks, Captain Sullivan believed in the use of a razor and kept both his face and head shaven. Surrounding the man like an invisible aura was an air of authority so thick that many who met the captain for the first time felt almost suffocated by it. All you had to do was look at Curtis Sullivan and you knew that as soon as the Black Hawk set down at its destination he would be shouting orders, co-ordinating efforts and telling who to do what. Unlike most stereotypical hard ass captains, Sullivan's men genuinely respected him. He was a fair, just and honourable man who was the first one on the field and the last one off. Sullivan also wasn't above going to the local bars and kicking back a few brews with his squad members either.  
The intangible aura that surrounded the man instilled Zeke with a sense of relief...and one of fear. Relief that his squad was in such capable hands but fear that if anything happened to Sullivan he would never be able to fill the shoes of such an experienced and respected commander. The butterflies in Zeke's belly were doing loopdy-loops and figure eights now. He placed a hand over his stomach in an effort to calm them.  
"You feeling all right, lieutenant?" Asked tactical sniper Ryan Pierce, seeing Zeke's uneasiness.  
"Yeah, I'm good," he lied, frustrated that he was letting his anxiousness start to show, "just skipped chow today. I'm kind of hungry now."  
While Zeke didn't know the sniper that well, Ryan was all right in his book. He had met the thirty year old sergeant a few times back at the Rangers home base and knew the sharpshooter to be a decent, hardworking family man with a wife and little girl back at his home in Lansing, Michigan. If there was anything Zeke disliked about Ryan it was that he was too quiet, giving others the impression that he was either an anti-social jerk or had something to hide. For the most part though he followed orders and watched the backs of his teammates, which was all that really mattered to the lieutenant.  
"If you're hungry I'll give you my share of the rations they passed out," boomed the powerful voice of Corporal Joesph Cooper from across the cabin, "although I wouldn't recommend you eating them."  
The worrisome lieutenant actually found himself cracking a smile, the chit-chat seemed to be doing some good at relieving any pre-mission stress he was feeling. Besides, he liked Joe to begin with. Corporal Cooper was rather new to the chalk, as was Pierce, but had quickly made an excellent impression on the other Rangers. The corporal was a huge bull of a man, built like a fridge and twice as durable. Joe's bald head and dark mahogany skin gleamed in the dim light of the Black Hawk's cabin as he absently stroked his black goatee. Cooper's positive attitude and outstanding willingness to help out earned him the respect and friendship of his peers. The man would practically give you the shirt off his back. Cooper's burly size and high quantity of brawn had made him a shoe-in for the position of heavy machine gunner. Due to his position the bulky Ranger carried the M- 249 squad assault weapon in his enormous paws, rather than the M-4 rifle.  
"Yeah," Zeke said, still grinning, "military rations do tend to taste like sun-dried vomit don't they?"  
"Well it's really an acquired taste," chipped in Sergeant Scott Owens, who was seated opposite Wesley Creek, "kind of like my dear friend Wesley's mother. How is the old vixen, Wes? Does she have any messages for me?"  
"Just one, you hairy son of a bitch," Wesley replied in his polished British accent, smiling with good humour, "she says you left this at her house and can pick it up whenever you please."  
The shaggy-haired Ranger slapped on a half grin and extended his middle finger at Owens. Everyone in the cabin began to laugh and Zeke found himself joining them. If there was anyone the lieutenant was not worried about losing their head it was Scott. He had been with the unit for nearly seven years now and had proven time and time again what a capable soldier he was. Zeke had also checked out the sergeant's file and discovered the man had been decorated five times for valor. He also seemed to be friends with Wesley and any friend of Wes' was a friend of his. Scott also served as the team's radio man.  
Zeke found himself actually starting to loosen up a bit. He was in the best damn squad in the best damn unit and under the guidance of the best damn captain there was. They were Army Rangers after all, there was nothing they couldn't handle. He was here to do his job and with all these experienced, capable, professional troopers backing him up how could he fail? Zeke's troubles were just beginning to ebb away when Captain Sullivan open his mouth and helped bring them all back again.  
"All right, enough horsin' around ya hear?" The captain spoke with a southern accent that made him sound a bit like a cowboy but did nothing to cow the obedience demanded by his voice. The cabin was silent once more.  
"Now that's better." Said Sullivan, looking around at his Rangers. "I know y'all have already been briefed on what I'm 'bout to say but it doesn't hurt to go over things twice. As y'all know the folks in Raccoon are experiencing a very serious health problem. Seems a lot of the people living there are getting sick with some type of skin disease. The doctors are workin' on it but they still haven't been able to figure out what the damn bug is. Needless to say the folks in Raccoon are gettin' scared, some of 'em are startin' to panic. The police are reporting that there's been some looting and vandalism but they expect things could get worse in the comin' days. That's where we come in.  
You've all probably heard on the news that the local cops are suffering from a shortage of personnel since a great deal of their people contracted this thing in the initial outbreak. We've been asked to reinforce their numbers and help keep the peace until either a cure is found or the cops from New York arrive to replace us and maintain order. Personally, I reckon we'll be here about a week or two tops. Are there any questions?"  
Captain Sullivan swept the cabin of the Black Hawk with his cold blue eyes, searching for inquiries. Ryan raised his hand after a moment. Sullivan nodded at the sniper. "What is it, Pierce?"  
"Is there any danger of us contracting the virus, sir?"  
"That's a good question. Everyone listen up." Sullivan's order was unnecessary, no one dare not pay attention during the man's briefing as he shouted to be heard above the rotors. "I've been informed by Raccoon health officials that the virus is not airborne and the only way to get it is through direct contact with a carrier. Therefore the odds of us becomin' infected are low but I'm not leavin' anythin' to chance. If any of you develop a severe headache, fever or skin rash during our stay report it to me immediately. Got it?"  
Each Ranger nodded his head. They got it. 'Yeah, I got it.' Zeke thought, his bad feeling resurfacing as the captain went over the briefing a second time. 'I wonder if you've got it though, sir. I wonder if you've read about the same rumours that have me so bent up inside. You know, the ones about the victims of the virus getting up again, about them staggering around to eat the living, wandering aimlessly looking for warm flesh. Any of that ring a bell, Captain Sullivan? It's not that hard to believe is it? I mean this is the same place that had those cannibal murders back in June and now this? A little too close together to be a coincidence don't you think? I wonder if the people down there have heard any of the rumours. I wonder."  
Zeke sighed, what was the use? Worrying about it now wouldn't change the fact that the chopper was still headed for Raccoon City and he still had a duty to perform. Besides, he always got worked up like this before missions only to have his worst fears not come true. They'd land safely and spend a boring two weeks doing patrols before some hot shot egghead would develop a miracle drug to cure the infection or the cops in New York decided to get off their asses and come lend a helping hand and then all would be well again. There wouldn't be any skin eating mutants hiding in the shadows waiting for some careless soldier to walk by and become its next meal.  
"Sir?" said a heavy set voice, snapping Zeke back to reality.  
"What's on your mind, Cooper?" Replied the captain, nodding at the gargantuan soldier.  
"Well," Joe began, "everything we've been hearing about this mystery virus has been pretty vague. Do you know anything more about it? Like is it just a really bad fucking case of the flu or what?"  
"I only know what I've been told by the doctors working on this thing." Came Sullivan's answer. "Up to this point that's been basically the symptoms and the fact that there have been some fatalities reported. Actually, there's one other thing, the virus causes brain deteration over time which eventually causes the host to become increasingly violent and despondent. That's why the police called for the extra help."  
The assembled company of Rangers glanced at one another uneasily. They were used to risking their lives in fights against hostage takers and fundamentalist terrorists. They knew how to combat the living, breathing threat of a maniac with a gun...but how did you fight against a disease? What good was an assault rifle against a microscopic organism? Noticing that he might be losing his squad, Captain Curtis Sullivan did his best to lift their spirits.  
"Come on now!" He shouted in his macho cowboy tone. "Don't y'all pussy out on me now! We're Army Rangers, an' it's gonna take more than a nasty cold bug to keep us out of the game right?"  
"Right!" The rest of the chalk shouted in unison.  
"ETA three minutes until we're over Raccoon City." Pilot Rachel Parker called back into the cabin, giving Zeke a small smile before turning back to the controls.  
Rachel was another person Zeke felt remarkably fond of. He had met the twenty-three year old flygirl nearly a year ago when she started flying missions for the Rangers. The lieutenant had been unable to resist the allure of her all-white smile, dark silky hair and chestnut brown eyes. Her athletic physique, delicate laugh and give-'em-hell attitude had further drawn the trooper in. Try as he might though (and he tried exceedingly hard) Zeke's attempts to obtain a date with the young chopper pilot had been wholly unsuccessful. Each time he would ask Rachel out to dinner she would laugh that intoxicating laugh of hers and reply that she liked the man too much to get involved with him. Zeke found this disappointing fact somewhat interesting. He thought the irony in her statement just too comical to miss. Since when was liking someone too much a good reason not to get involved with them?  
Whether this was the honest truth or simple fiction did not matter to Zeke. He would continue his efforts to get the pilot to join him for a drink one night and he honestly believed that one night she would say yes. Wesley seemed to find his best friend's advances on Rachel exceptionally funny. He would often chuckled and tell his buddy Zeke that a hot, young thing like their pilot would be interested in "shacking up" with an "old geezer" like him. This did nothing to shake the lieutenant's confidence though, giving up never accomplished anything was his motto.  
The remainder of the trip to Raccoon City was taken in silence. The chalk of Rangers double checked their gear and weapons, making sure everything was in the right place. Securing the chin strap of his helmet, Zeke grunted with displeasure, feeling as if it was even tighter and more uncomfortable now. Wesley patted down the front of his uniform, on the other side of the material was about every lucky charm known to man. Connected to a silver chain was a four leaf clover, rabbit's foot, shark's tooth, and even a small vial of holy water. When the others would make smart remarks about the Brit's superstitious nature he would just grin and reply: "Well I'm not dead yet, am I?" Captain Sullivan jammed a plastic mouth guard into his maw. On a previous mission the helicopter had been put through a rough landing and the captain nearly bit off his lower lip. The mouth guard ensured the same thing would not happen twice.  
"We're coming up over the east side of the city now." Announced Rachel from the pilot's seat. "Take a look if you like, guys."  
Turning in their seats the twenty Army Rangers gazed out through the Black Hawk's windows. What they saw down in the streets below helped confirm the uneasy feeling in Zeke's stomach. A riot was raging in the east part of town, not a small looting fit like the police had reported but a full blown tantrum of uncontrolled, wanton destruction.  
Bright flashes broke through the darkness, Zeke immediately recognized them as muzzle flashes, as the frenzied citizens opened fire upon one another as well as the police barricade the chopper sailed over. Police officers returned fire from behind the cover of the squad cars and wooden barriers that formed the blockade. Fires rose high as the rioters hurled Molotov cocktails through store-front windows and set cars alight with them. Projectiles of all sorts, trash cans, rocks and bricks were thrown as the looters shattered shop windows and stole the merchandise inside with crazed haste. Vehicles race haphazardly through the chaos, seeking an exit from the madness but were at a loss to find one. Rioters were sent flying as frightened drivers carelessly ran them down. Zeke and his teammates watched in horror as a pale beige car steered straight towards the police barricade at dangerous speeds.  
"My God," Ryan murmured beside Zeke, watching the horrendous scene below, "they're going to try and ram their way through."  
Sergeant Pierce's statement of the obvious came true as the insane driver charged full-throttle towards the thick line of SWAT trucks, squad cars and wooden fortifications. The officers immediately opened fire on the rampaging motorist, filling the car full of bullet holes. Zeke thought he saw a tire on the right side blow out as well but he couldn't be sure at the high cruising altitude of the Black Hawk. There was squeal of tires and the crunch of metal as the vehicle slammed violently into the barrier. Officers scattered to get out of harm's way, throwing themselves to the pavement and rolling for safety. Almost instantly the car erupted into a tremendous ball of orange fire, igniting the gas tank of the cruiser it had struck and causing a massive explosion. More cops were thrown from the bone- breaking crash, their bodies being slowly consumed by the flames.  
"Holy shit." Owens breathed, then pressed a finger up against the glass. "Look!"  
Witnessing the police barricade erupt into an inferno of burning metal, the maddened rioters charged on the officers. Perhaps they thought the fortifications were weaker now, thanks to the collision, or perhaps the panicked residents just wanted to take their aggression out on the cops whose duty was to keep them contained. Whatever the case was they failed at their objective.  
Lieutenant Wilcott watched in stunned terror as the unruly mob raced towards the smouldering blockade, firing guns and hurling projectiles. The officers took up there positions once more and returned fire. The Rangers watched as the riots front-line was torn down, bodies staggering and dropping to the ground. A second line rushed the officers. This time there were trails of smoke as the police launched tear gas to subdue the enraged mod. Thick clouds of white smoke began to rise, halting the charge in mid- step. Citizens began coughing and choking, stumbling in every direction looking for escape as the gas started to blind them. The crowd began to disperse, running every which way to avoid the grasp of the painful fumes. Those who could not get out of the way were trampled by those that could.  
Zeke turned away from the grizzly sight and glanced at the floor, feeling like he might throw up. The other squad members also averted their eyes moments later, feeling much the same way as Zeke did. Everyone was silent, even the usually upbeat, high-spirited Wesley looked dower.  
"Looting and vandalism huh? My ass." Ryan scowled.  
"We're heading into that?" Joesph remarked incredulously.  
"Damn right we are!" Captain Sullivan bellowed, a train load of authority in his tone. "We're going in here so y'all better learn to deal with it! We've been in bad situations before an' we made it through 'em jus' fine. This is going to be no different alright?"  
The Rangers nodded their heads solemnly.  
"Alright." The captain said. "Now, our goal is the north blockade. Upon our arrival there Ms. Parker will drop us off and return to base. From the moment we set foot on the pavement our chalk will be known as Charlie Company. The team at the east barricade is Alpha. Bravo Company has the west end and Delta will take the south barrier. Upon our arrival I will contact the other companies to ensure that they have reached their goals. From there on out we reinforce the security measures set up by the local cops. You've seen how bad things are in the east end so I expect all of you to be alert and follow my orders to the letter. Do you get me?"  
"We get you, sir!" The assembled soldiers answered as one.  
"Rangers lead the way!" Sullivan yelled with pride.  
"All the way!" Came a collective shout.  
"Here we go." Zeke muttered to himself nervously, holding his rifle tighter.  
"What's our ETA to target, pilot?" The Ranger commander questioned.  
"About-" was all Rachel managed to reply before a heart-stopping explosion rocked the cabin.  
Lieutenant Wilcott felt his stomach jump into his throat as a loud bang rang out and the chopper dipped heavily to the right. A couple Rangers hissed curse words as the Black Hawk began to sway and shake violently. Several thick tendrils of black smoke drifted into the cabin from the front of the helicopter.  
"What the bloody hell was that?" Wesley shouted, gripping the bench beneath him for dear life, then began coughing from the dense fumes.  
"Report, pilot!" Sullivan demanded, calling into the cockpit where Rachel and her co-pilot struggled with the controls.  
"I'm not sure, sir!" Rachel yelled back, the panic in her voice scarring Zeke more than he liked. "Something in the engine overheated and blew...fuck! The controls are shot too. Shit, shit, shit! W-we're going down, sir."  
The Black Hawk continued to spiral out of control. Lieutenant Wilcott could almost sense the pavement rising up to destroy them as they sank closer. The Rangers hastily secured themselves to their seats, digging their fingers into the benches struggling, coughing and near blind from the putrid smelling smoke. Zeke finally managed to snap his own belt into place.  
"Stay clam!" The dependable Captain Sullivan commanded. "We are making a crash landing in hostile territory! Be prepared for immediate combat once we land!"  
"By land you mean get smashed to bits on the bloody sidewalk right, captain?" Wesley looked over at his superior with askance as the entire cabin began to tremble.  
"Can it, sergeant!" Sullivan spat. "Brace for impact!"  
Lieutenant Zeke Wilcott shut his eyes tight, gripping onto his seat hard enough to turn his knuckles white. The Black Hawk continued its rapid descent as the pilots fought desperately for control. 'What the fuck happened?' The thought raced through the lieutenant's mind as he tried to ignore the dizzy sensations washing over him. 'So much for there being nothing to worry about.'  
These last words travelled out of Zeke's mind and were replaced by the horrid stench of fire and smoke. The splintering sound of metal tearing and contracting tore through his brain like a hot razor. A violent tremor shook the cabin and its inhabitants a moment later. Zeke felt his head painfully collide with the back of the Black Hawk's cabin as the wall behind him buckled. Thinking that he should have listened better to his instincts, Zeke drifted off into unconsciousness. 


	3. Psychos Inc

Chapter 2: Psychos Inc.  
October 1, 1998  
6:10 PM  
East Raccoon City  
  
East Raccoon City was held fast in the grip of pandemonium. Looters were everywhere, frightened and angered they took to the streets, pillaging all they could find. Whatever was left they burned, stole or destroyed. Shop front windows were smashed, homes burglarized, vehicles stolen or hijacked. Those that were not creating the chaos sought to flee it and many lost their lives in the process, succumbing to the ceaseless violence of the mobs.  
The police officers did what they could to surpress the rioters but were heavily handicapped by a lack of personnel and quickly became overwhelmed. Outraged citizens discharged firearms and hurled home-made explosives at the massive police barricades that sealed them within their city of disease and death. The police returned fire and launched tear gas rounds, momentarily dispersing the crowds only to have them come back again with another suicidal charge. The scent of smoke, gunpowder and blood hung thick in the night air.  
Four men, riding on metallic black Harley's sped away from the barricades where the rowdy mobs were thickest and around the street corner. They drove past a group of men cleaning out a local sporting goods store and continued down the block and around another corner. The bikers rode at the same speed in a straight line, going fast but at a velocity that would allow them to make sudden stops and get out of harm's way should such an occasion arrive.  
If one were to look at the four bikers closely all at once they would swear the men to be related. They all sported the same brand of thick beards, braided like a Viking's with shaggy sprouts of hair popping out that seemed to mesh well with the long, greasy hair that drifted down from their heads and across their broad shoulders. Each man stood over six feet tall and was built like a Mac truck with muscles. Their arms bore many of the same tattoos, scars and callouses. The crew even dressed the same: wearing ripped blue jeans, dark work boots, fingerless leather gloves, deep purple bandanas and leather vests.  
Imprinted across the back of the vest was the design of a laughing skull. Spewing forth from the skull's cackling jaw was murky blue smoke. The pits of its eyes were a fiery shade of red. Written along a banner underneath the intimidating picture were the words "Psychos Inc." Etched on a banner atop each man's jacket was a nickname, from left to right the titles were: Slugger, Shots, Shank and Boomer.  
While the vest may certainly have looked cool, the sentimental value of the garment was much more important to the squad of Harley riders. The jackets declared them brothers of a sort. All four of them belonged to the biker brotherhood of the Psychos Incorporated gang. The vest that had been given to them as the final part of their initiation was a badge of honour to be worn proudly and at all times. Never was it to be removed, not even during sleep.  
Since the club's formation in 1984, Psychos Inc had never consisted of more than six members. Throughout the biker social circles it had become known as the most exclusive and tightly knit motorcycle gang in all of the United States. To the police they were just another band of dangerous trouble makers, no doubt out to sell drugs, guns and stir up their fair share of barroom tussles.  
Aside from the group's shady, outward reputation, on the whole the six men were like a band of brothers. A family even. They had all been outcasted from society for one reason or another and few understood the hardships they had faced better than one another. The rest of the world cared little, and knew even less, about the band of rogues, giving the bikers nothing to live for but the freedom of the open road and the solace of each others companionship. While Psychos Inc had faced many dangers and life threatening situations before, nothing compared to the bedlam being unleashed in Raccoon City.  
Taking the corner onto Willard Avenue the cyclists passed by a Future Shop and watched as four figures hopped out of a broken window lugging televisions, DVD players, and boom boxes. They continued on down the block, witnessing an elderly black man being savagely beaten by a pair of teenagers. Doing their best to stay clam the four Psychos increased their speed and kept going, ignoring the thought that at any moment the furious rioters would turn their attention to the group of riders. Panicking would not help them find their friends any faster.  
Currently the group was on a search and rescue mission of sorts. Having arrived in the city only a couple weeks prior to it being quarantined and locked down by the police, the Psychos Inc crew checked in and spent a few days drinking hard, partying harder and smoking some of the finest grass they could find. When news of the "mystery virus" reached the roughnecks they barely gave it a second thought. All the sick people would be put up in hospitals right? As long as no one with this skin disease started rubbing up against them what was there to worry about?  
The gang learned its lesson soon after, when cops started making barricades and people started going crazy. Tonight was not the first riot the group had seen, there had been a few smaller ones in previous days. Generally, the local law enforcement had quelled the uprising easily but had done so with lethal force more often then not. Anyone foolish enough to try and jump or force their way through the blockades was shot on sight. During these violent altercations between citizen and police officer the Pyschos Inc group stayed hunkered down in their motel rooms at the Lucky Clover and waited for things to settle down. Respect for the law was something the gang had in short supply but participating in all out mayhem was simply not their style. Being trampled to death in an unruly mob had its downside.  
None of these riots could hold a candle to the one currently exploding within the eastern part of Raccoon. To make matters worse, two of their own were lost within its midst. The other pair of the posse, Blaze and Tech, were still unaccounted for. Braving the volatile streets of Raccoon, the four men set out in search of their comrades.  
The group had been pouring frosty mugs of Budweiser down their throats at Wyatt's Pub when the frenzied shouts of the rioters pierced the uneasy silence of the October night. Not long after, bricks, rocks and other projectiles came crashing through the windows of Wyatt's. The four bikers knew another riot had been incited and entertained no plans of sticking around for it. The other patrons at the tavern that night seemed to share similar ideas and hauled tail out of the establishment.  
Upon leaving the dank bar, the four members of Psychos Inc discovered that the party was already in full swing. Looters charged back and forth with stolen items clutched greedily in their hands. Vehicles swerved haphazardly , trying to avoid the crowds of people racing across the traffic lanes. Police and fire department sirens wailed in the darkness. Gunshots broke out in sporadic patterns. Officers were yelling over loud speakers, demanding the civilians to return home or meet with deadly force, the authority in their voices masking their fear. Ignoring the hazardous surroundings as best they could, the four broad-shouldered men pushed their way through crowds of fired-up Raccoon residents and made it to their Harley's.  
Now, they rode in a tight line through the death trap of the city's streets. Somewhere out there were two of their friends and they would be damned if they did nothing to find them. Each member of Psychos Inc regarded the others as more than his pals, they were his brothers, bound forever by the call of the open road and the smell of gasoline. They would stop at nothing short of death to help one another out. The club's most cherished rule, and one that was identical to the Army Rangers motto, was that no one ever got left behind. Ever.  
"So," the biker whose jacket read Slugger, shouted to the man riding in the middle of the line, "remind me again where we're going Shank. I'm just a bit curious considering we have no fucking clue where either Tech or Blaze might be." Shank, leading the rest of his brethren down the road, turned and glanced over at Slugger. The other two, Boomer and Shots, watched on and listened for orders or directions.  
"We're heading back to the Lucky Clover." Shank replied in his thick, baritone voice, his long hair blowing in the wind. "Blaze and Tech aren't as stupid as they look so they're a lot more likely to be holed up there than they are to be prancin' around out in the streets."  
"You sure?" Boomer chuckled, his considerable beer belly bouncing. "The folks breaking into all the stores around here sure do seem to be having a good time."  
Shank took a quick look around as his chubby friend gestured to the different squads of rioters. Men and women were engaged in all manner of criminal acts, from aggravated assault to petty theft. Surveying the scene he found it bitterly ironic that his gang was not a part of all the chaos.  
'Badass biker gang trying to avoid causing damage for a change.' Shank smirked absently, steering to avoid an abandoned cardboard box. 'Yeah, that's almost funny. What's real funny is the fact that we come here looking to kick back and party, only to wind up in some diseased city, then have the pigs seal us in here with all the crazies trying to break everything in sight. I know I'm laughing, well fuck it, we need to get back to the motel and find Blaze, he's always got a plan for everything.'  
The man by the name of Blaze was Pyschos Inc true leader, the father of the whole troop, and a force to be reckoned with. He was forty-five now but had spent his younger days as a fire fighter in Detroit. One night an inferno had ravaged an apartment complex and his team had received the call. The fire was extremely severe, leaving a family of five trapped in one of the upper rooms. Blaze (then known by a much different name) had done all he could to reach those trapped, becoming badly burnt in the process, but it was all for not. In the end he was forced to listen to the family's gruesome screams as they died, consumed by the flames.  
The next day he quit the unit, deeming the disaster his fault, and took to the open road. He tossed aside his birth name like a dirty garment and adopted the title of Blaze as a reminder of that which had left him terribly scarred and stolen the lives of a half-dozen innocent people.  
The incident, coupled with his own grief and quilt, left Blaze a disturbed individual. He was quick to violence and a man who enjoyed taking pain as much as he did dishing it out. The Psychos leader was considered by many who knew him to be a frightening masochist.  
For all this he was still a competent and efficient commander. Even with all his mental and emotional trauma, Blaze was quick-thinking and sharp as a spearhead. Everyone in the group found him to be an asset in any situation, high-pressure or not. Shank was praying he was still all right. If anyone could get them out of Raccoon City in one piece it was Blaze.  
Only a few weeks after leaving his old life behind and taking to a nomadic way of living, the tortured biker met a man running from his past as well. The stranger would not give his name but preferred to be called by Boomer. Later, the portly and well-humoured drifter came to reveal that he had once been an NYPD bomb specialist. He had been assigned to disarm an explosive package left in a school by a disgruntled staff member but, when he pressure was on, he choked. When the smoke and dust had cleared one teacher and four young students had been killed in the blast. The ex-cop had also been crippled in the explosion, leaving one leg practically useless. Blaze quickly came to respect and understand the other man's problems as they were nearly identical to his own. While both came to learn more about the other's past, Blaze never felt the need to ask where Boomer came up with his nickname. Deep down he knew that the man had chosen it for the same reasons as he had chosen his own, it was a scar, a reminder of his failures.  
Nearly a year after the two travellers met and had taken to journeying the country together, a third man was soon brought into their midst. They'd found the younger drifter laying in a ditch by the roadside late one afternoon in March, his Hog running on fumes, it seemed he had been driving a long while without food or sleep and simply collapsed. Boomer and Blaze checked the grubby stranger over and, after determining he was not seriously injured, got some hot chow in him and took the wanderer under their wing.  
The half-dead rider told the two his name and opened up about his past. Previously, he had been employed as a wilderness guide in Colorado leading hikers on tours through the many different woodlands covering the area. Misfortune had also sunk its teeth into him when, one night during a heavy rainstorm, he had misread the map and gotten his entire group lost. At the offset of the tour there had been five of them in total but when search and rescue showed up two weeks later on their guide was found alive, shaking and dehydrated inside a cave. Ever since that foul night he had been running, hard and fast, away from himself.  
This new drifter would continue his travels with Blaze and Boomer, beginning to think of them as the only family he had, for they knew first hand the quilt and shame he lived with each day. So it was that Psychos Inc came to be, given its title by three men driven halfway mad by their failures, now roaming the highways looking to escape their personal turmoil and seek out some kind of redemption. During the trio's time together this third man proved his skill time and again with a knife (the gang was accustomed to solving its disputes with other rivals in less than civilized ways after all) and came to be known as Shank.  
Over the years three more members would come to join the Psychos ranks. Shots, a former surgeon from Maine who had botched a complicated procedure, causing his patient to lapse into shock and then death. While none of his fellow practitioners blamed him, the doctor could not live with his conscience and traded in his smock for a leather jacket. Alcohol was one of his preferred crutches and had helped gaining him his title, as the doctor could out drink anyone shot for shot.  
Slugger was brought into the group next. Back in Pittsburgh he had led a happy life as a newlywed and an upcoming star on the Pittsburgh Pirates. At just twenty-five, the youngster was nearing the home run record. All that changed one night when an obsessed fan breached the sanctity of his house and broke in. Luckily the pro baseballer was playing a game in San Francisco at the time. Unluckily, his beautiful bride had remained home, being too sick to have made the flight with her husband. Hearing the intruder in their home she went down to investigate and startled the stalker. Having brought a gun with him, the frightened fan opened up and fired twice into the young lady. She died instantly.  
Later, Slugger would return home and find the love of his life laying at his feet in a pool of blood. Grief gave way to vengeance rapidly for the baseball star and while the cops were tied up in warrants and red tape he took matters into his own hands. It took the Pirate only a couple of days to track down the murderer, a fat, filthy man named Carl Broder and when he did Slugger grabbed his trusty Louisville bat then went to pay the fugitive a visit.  
Only a moment after Broder came to answer the door he felt the thick hickory wrap around his head. Like a man possessed, Slugger went to work. He unleashed blow after blow, swinging like Babe Ruth did in his prime. Each crack of the bat carried with it all of the young man's grief, hatred and loss. Tears streamed down his face each time he lashed out. When the blood haze cleared from the all-star's eyes, Carl Broder lay dead. Welts covered his arms and legs, his skull cracked open and spilling its contents across the floor.  
After making the grizzly discovery, police immediately put out an A.P.B. For the baseball star's arrest, forcing him to run. Blaze and his crew would later find the athlete outside a bar in Cincinnati, engaged in a brawl with a pair from the Wolverines band. He had once again put his bat to work, sending the two attackers running with their tails between their legs and thus earning his name as Slugger among the Psychos. He had joined up with the gang that same night, sensing within them a kinship, that they were running from something as well. Slugger roamed the free roads with the biker gang trying to escape the grief he still harboured at the loss of his beloved wife.  
Last but not least to be picked up by the crew was a man whose appearance denied his biker background. The sixth member of Psychos Inc was only about five feet tall and a hundred-forty pounds soaking wet. He had the features of a weasel or rat and scruffy spots of hair along his chin.  
Tech, called so for his incredible knack with computers and technology of almost every kind, was skinny, paranoid and as foul-tongued as a sailor. The thirty-year old was once a top programmer for IBM but had been fired after the company learned he was publishing his own conspiracy newsletter.  
Upon losing his job due to his personal interests, Tech would go on to loose his house, car and everything but the clothes on his back. He came to meet the other Psychos members as after they saved him from a mugging outside his motel room. Travelling around with a posse of muscle heads seemed like a pretty good investment in personal security to the techie. Besides, it was a pretty good way to spread his newsletter about the brain suckers from Mars too, right?  
"Good thing we always come expecting a warm welcome, huh?" Shot's voice snapped Shank back to the present.  
Shank shot a look over at his partner and saw him reach down to caress the handle of a sawed-off, double-barrel shotgun protruding from one saddle bag. Boomer flashed that wild-eyed grin of his and reached inside his jacket to touch the cool metal of his compact PA-3 shotgun. To the left of Shank a Louisville bat stuck our of Slugger's saddle bag and tucked into the waist band of his pants was a black finished Smith & Wesson Model 29 revolver. Shank instinctively felt down the folds of his own jacket, pressing the lumps where his numerous throwing, butterfly, and jacknives were holstered. In each boot a sharp-edged Bowie knife was sheathed. In addition to his arsenal of melee weapons, the biker also carried a Colt King Cobra .357 in his belt. He was well aware that it was not always a good idea to bring a knife to a gunfight.  
"Damn right!" Boomer replied, his grin making Shank wonder how he could always find everything so humorous. "We've got guns, bikes and are full o' booze, ain't nothing greater!"  
"Just keep moving and hopefully we won't have to use them." said Slugger going a bit harder on the throttle with Shank and the others following.  
"There it is!" Shank hollered a second later, trying to hid the spark of relief he felt as a neon green sign with the words Lucky Clover Motel came into view. "There's no guarantee that Blaze and Tech are here but I'll bet you a dollar to doughnuts they are."  
"You call that a bet?" Boomer grinned.  
  
"Just shut up and follow me." Shank sighed.  
Finishing his retort, Shank turned and led the group into the motel's parking lot. Only one vehicle still remained, a brown pick-up with its windshield shattered and front tires deflated. The small, rectangular check- in office for the Lucky Clover was pitch black, its windows utterly destroyed leaving trails of glass, like glittering crystals, across the asphalt. The motel itself may have been a dump, with its tacky green paint and rusty steps, but it had certainly seen better days. Doors to rooms on both floors stood open, literally torn off their hinges. Lights were on in some of the rooms, revealing broken or stolen television sets, overturned mattresses, open drawers with their contents sprawled across the grey carpet and phones hanging off the line. Many of the windows had also been smashed in by the frenzied rioters, shards of glass lay on the ground reflecting the streetlights cold glow.  
"Sons of bitches!" Slugger exclaimed indignantly, looking at what had once been his bedroom. "Those shitheads broke into my room!"  
The Psychos Inc band had all checked into rooms on the bottom floor in a straight line. Shank noticed that only Slugger's door was standing ajar. While the big man did feel some sympathy for his friend (as well as some feelings of irony that Slugger had been the only victim of crime out of their group), sweet relief also swept over him as he spied the light on in Blaze's room. 'It's still not a sure sign but it's better than nothing.' He thought quietly then turn to the others.  
"Alright," Shank spoke quickly, sounding eerily like a drill sergeant giving orders, "things seem to have gotten particularly fucked up around here as well so this what we're gonna do. Boomer?"  
"Aye, Cap'n?" Smiled the hefty biker.  
  
"If you could never do that again I'd appreciate it." Shank sighed. "I want you to go over and see if anyone's in the check-in office who knows why everyone in town went crazy. Think you can handle that, bud?"  
"Aye, aye sir!" Saluting like a military messenger, Boomer kicked his Harley into gear and raced over to the Lucky Clover's front desk.  
"Slugger go check your room and see what the damage is." The big hitter zipped off without a word as Shank finished talking. "Shots, you go and see if Tech is here. I think I can see a light on in his room.  
"Alright." Shots nodded then took off down to Tech's room which stood next to the one occupied by Slugger at the end of the row.  
Blaze had checked into room 1A, about ten feet away from the front desk which Boomer had just entered. Shank took a final look around his surroundings before proceeding. Judging by the mighty racket approaching from up the street, the riot seemed to be zeroing in on the motel, meaning that he had to hurry up and find the rest of his crew. Stumbling underneath a lampost down the street to his left, the biker spotted a man and woman staggering about. Both looked sickly pale, wore tattered, bloodstained clothes and walked as if intoxicated or badly beaten. With the riots raging in Raccoon as they were Shank figured the later was more likely. 'Doesn't matter,' his mind chided, ' you've got your own problems now.'  
Nodding inwardly, Shank rolled towards the door of his friend's motel room. Hopping off his hog, the biker felt glass crunch beneath his thick boot. Looking down, Shank felt a pang of anxiety course through him as he noticed several patches of crimson fluid on the ground. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Shank reached up to knock only to have the door to 1A pulled open and a heavy hand wrap around his neck. Too startled to react, Shank felt himself being pulled in and slammed up against the wall. His skull painfully absorbed the brunt of the impact as a gun was simultaneously thrust into his face.  
"Mother fuck!" he swore, both from the throbbing ache in his head and the metallic barrel of a handgun starring him down.  
"Shank?" a surprised, gruff voice said then the weapon was lowered and Blaze's bearded face came into view. "Damn son, you gave me a scare. I figured you were another of those rat bastards trying to bust my door down."  
The Pyschos Inc leader released his vice-like grip on Shank's throat and took a step back. Blaze holstered his pistol, a custom-finished Browning HP, and took a seat next to the skinny form of Tech. The slender man held his arm close to his body, cradling it against him like a sick infant and wincing with pain. The motel room was boringly simple. A pair of single beds, a chest of drawers, a small TV with rabbit ear attenas, a circular coffee table where the two sat by the front door and a bathroom at the far end of the area.  
"What happened to your arm?" Shank asked, gently rubbing his hairy throat where Blaze's hand had left a large red imprint.  
"The fucking crazies in this damn city fucking broke it!" Tech yelped, nursing his injured appendage.  
"We got jumped coming back here." Blaze explained. "Me an' him were coming out of the Cat's Meow strip club once everyone started going apeshit and some punk asses jumped us. There must have been six or seven of 'em. They took our bikes and one of the fuckers busted Tech's arm with a tire iron."  
"Yeah, well I got that prick back." Tech interjected, his weasel features contorting with pain as he reached around and produced a sleek Glock 17 from the back of his waist band. "I put at bullet right through that jerk's forearm, he won't be jerking off for months to come."  
"Well, at least you're alright. More or less I mean." Shank said, then poked his head outside and spotted Shots waiting beside Tech's motel room. He gestured him over. "I'll have Shots take a look at you when he gets here."  
"The other guys are with you?" Blaze asked as Tech set his pistol down on the table.  
"Yeah," Shank nodded, "I had Boomer go scout out the front desk and it seems some of the looters beat down the door to Slugger's room and helped themselves to some of his stuff, so he's checking that out now."  
"What's up boss?" Shots asked with a rueful smile as he entered the room. "Enjoying the festivities so far?"  
"Yeah right." Blaze snorted. "Take a look at Tech, some of those whackos out there jumped us tonight and busted his arm up pretty good."  
"What happened outside your room?" Shank inquired as the group's medic moved over to examine Tech. "There's blood all over the place."  
"Those fucking nuts out there tore through this place like a hurricane a few minutes ago." The Psychos crew chief answered. "Some of 'em tried getting in here but that's a lot harder to do when the guys on the other side are shooting at you. I must have winged four or five of the shitheads in the arms and legs, got one guy in the stomach for sure. I know the cripple over there hit at least one."  
"You're a fucking comedian man, let me tell you." Tech replied sarcastically then cried out as Shots probed his arm, looking the injury over. "Shit, fix it Shots don't make it worse."  
"Quit your whining." The former doctor said as he rose to his feet. "It's definitely broken. You're going to need a splint or sling until we can get you to a hospital."  
"No hospitals!" Tech screeched, recoiling from the word as if it were poison. "Do you know what goes on there? Biological weapons research, genetic manipulation and a host of other diabolic crap! They let you die there then use your body for experimentation!"  
"You watch too much X-Files, buddy." Shots quipped.  
"It's true!" Tech insisted.  
"Just get him the sling, Shots." Blaze sighed, rubbing his temples. "You're giving me a headache."  
"I've got a first-aid kit and some medical gear on my bike." The ex- surgeon said, heading back outside. "Might have some painkillers too."  
"You guys get into any trouble of your own getting over here?" Blaze asked and Shank shook his head.  
"We didn't run into any problems getting over here, but let me tell you, it's like a fucking midnight madness sale out there and everything you can get your hands on has five finger discount."  
"Fucking A!" Slugger boomed angrily, entering in behind the three men and giving them all a start. "Those pricks took my CD player, headphones and about half the clothes I brought with me. Good thing I keep all my important stuff safe and sound on my bike."  
"On the bright side," Boomer said, beaming with humour as he approached his friends, "with your fat ass those clothes probably won't fit whoever took them."  
"You're a fucking riot, Boomer." Grumbled the ball playing biker as Boomer chuckled and slapped him on one thick shoulder.  
"What an ironic choice of words, buddy." He said, laughing and then stepped inside. "Glad to see you're alright boss. What happened to your arm, skinny?"  
"Ran into some unfriendly locals on the way back here," seethed Tech, then added darkly, "don't ever call me skinny."  
"Shots went to get a first-aid kit for him." Shank said, leaning his broad back against the wall. "Find anything at the check-in desk?"  
"Nothing helpful I'm afraid." Boomer shook his head. "Looks like the manager decided to try and skip town. He took all the money in the register with him and I found a safe behind a painting that had been cleaned out too."  
"Well we can't stay here anyways, can we?" Shank looked askance at their leader.  
"No way, man. Blaze answered, rising to his feet. "I can hear them getting closer every minute and it appears that John Law isn't doing a good job of teaching these kids a lesson and sending them back on home."  
"I read in the paper that the cops were suffering from a shortage of men." Slugger added as the sounds of shouting and gunfire began to close in on the motel's location. "Apparently it had something to do with the skin- infection that showed up after we arrived in this cozy little neighbourhood."  
"You don't think we could be infected with that shit do you?" Tech said, his voice dripping with worry, as he looked up at Blaze.  
"I'm sure if we were we'd have known it by now," the Psychos leader replied, "try not to worry about it."  
"So what's the plan then, boss?" Boomer asked, looking over at Blaze.  
"We wait for Shots to get back and patch up Tech," the Pyschos captain began, "then we'll cruise by the barricades and see what kind of condition they're in. Maybe all the cops got whacked and we can just waltz on through and head somewhere a little calmer."  
"I sure hope so." Shank murmured quietly to himself.  
Blaze opened his mouth to say more but was cut off by the sound of squealing tires and rowdy hooting from outside. Next came the thunderous pop of gunfire followed by the crash of glass and the sound of licking flames. There was a pair of heavy shotgun blasts and then an excited call from Shots.  
"Get out here fast guys!" He yelled desperately. "We've got some company!"  
The Psychos hauled out their weapons and charged into the Lucky Clover's parking lot. 


	4. Night of the Living Dead

**Chapter 3: Night of the Living Dead**

October 1, 1998

6:00 PM

West Raccoon City Barricade

Sergeant Jacob "Tubbs" Foster, commander of the 24th Precient's SWAT team, strolled p and down the frontline of the west blockade. Tubbs had earned his nickname due to his short stature and portly figure. The officer stood only five feet tall and just over two hundred pounds, making his high rank in the SWAT unit comical to some and unbelievable to others. Jacob's Kevlar helmet matted down short locks of black hair, making them itch almost as badly as the thick beard upon his mahogany colored face.

Having lived in Raccoon all his life, Jacob had gained a reputation among the townspeople as a dependable and dedicated family man. To his teammates he was a brave, intelligent, friendly and determined police officer. Foster had spent twenty of his forty-four years on the force and could never imagine having done anything else with his life. The job bothered his wife, Tessa, but she understood that each day her husband went to work he was making the world a safer, saner place and despite the dangers involved she was proud of him.

Jacob paced up and down the blockade of vehicles in full body armor, carrying his MP5 slung across his chest. The squat sergeant tapped the other weary officers on the shoulders and gave them an encouraging smile, congratulating them on the great job they were doing even if it involved simply trying to remain awake.

Officers stationed at the various barricades throughout the city were pulling double shifts, some working up to fourteen hour shifts a day. The long hours could drain both one's physical and mental energy so Jake did what he could to boost morale. His men returned his smile with a nod and he moved on up the row.

The chubby officer wandered down to where a pair of squad cars had been parked so that their front ends formed a "v" and sat his rump down on the trunk. The cruiser shifted a little closer to the pavement under his added bulk. Gazing down at one stubby finger, Jacob absently spun the beautiful gold ring that rested there and thought about how much he missed Tessa at that moment.

When the mysterious illness had first broken out in the city, Jacob had pushed his wife to leave town and go stay with her mother in Florida until things had gotten back to normal. Tessa, stubborn as usual, refused to go anywhere. However, when the situation had escalated and the cops had been ordered to quarantine Raccoon, Jacob once again pressured his beloved wife to head somewhere safer. The police had set up crisis centers in the 24th, 10th and 14th precients for any citizens seeking refuge from the rioters, she would be in better hands there Tessa Foster's husband had argued. Once again, she refused.

Tubbs had been determined though and continually chipped away at his wife's resolve, encouraging her to go and stay at the 24th Precient where his life long friend, Captain William Brown, would take care of her while he was on assignment. After the constant barrage, Tessa had finally listened to her spouse and left for the police station with everything she could carry. That had been two weeks ago. Since then, Jake had seen his wife – with her gentle smile and even gentler hands – only a handful of times for a few short visits. Not long enough for anything more than a kiss, a few words of encouragement and another kiss goodbye.

Of all the cops working at the barricades, he was forced to work the longest hours, the rigors of command and all that. Often times the chubby cop was forced to catch a quick nap in the back of one of the SWAT vans while his second in command, Sergeant Sam Brocket, looked over things.

_'Man, I miss her.' _Foster thought solemnly, starring down at his wedding band. _'I miss being able to come home late at night and just lay down next to her in bed. I miss the way she used to laugh when I'd reached for seconds at dinner and say that she felt guilty her meals were the cause of the spare tire I had to lug around. I miss how even when she wasn't wearing any perfume or make-up her hair and skin always smelled of spice and soap. I miss the light of her smile, all there is here is darkness.'_

Sighing, Jacob glanced around his gloomy surroundings. Night had fallen and brought with it a biting chill that he could feel crawling into his bones even beneath the heavy Kevlar flak jacket. Pressing his hands against his puffy cheeks to keep them warm, the sergeant gazed down the lines of police vehicles.

Uniformed officers and SWAT personnel paced back and forth, keeping vigilant watch on the eerily silent streets in front of them. Out in the quiet darkness abandoned vehicles and assorted junk lay forgotten upon the roads of Raccoon City. No lights were lit in any of the homes or shops lining the streets. Only the overhead lamps shed pale light down upon the tired officers who looked as if they desired nothing more than a warm blanket and a soft pillow at the moment.

While the guard duty sucked the life out of him Jacob still counted himself lucky that there did not seem to be much activity in this section of town. Rioting had been much more severe in the east and south ends of Raccoon. Tubbs and his loyal unit of law enforcement had only been required to break up a few small looting raids. Again, Jacob counted himself lucky at how small the skirmishes had been and that there had been no cause for his subordinates to use deadly force. Yet, still, there he was away from his cherished wife, minding the watch of his meager host of troops in the bitter cold.

"Looks like it might rain." A youthful yet mature voice said casually to the somber looking commander.

Foster knew immediately that the voice belonged to his right hand man, Sam Brocket. Ever since being assigned to the west barricade Jacob's second in command had been nothing but helpful. Often he would stroll around to the other men and women standing guard to crack jokes and talk sports, doing what he could to keep the mood light. More than once the twenty-eight year old cop had offered to take over for a few hours and let Jake take a break when he noticed the stocky officer nodding off at his post.

Samuel Brocket stood an entire head taller than his commander and sported an athletic frame in comparison to Jacob's rolly-polly one. Thick black hair sat closely cropped atop his head, nearly matching the color of his dark brown eyes that were surrounded with a friendly cheerfulness and a patience that denied his young years. Jacob liked the kid as if he were his own son.

In Foster's opinion, Sam was everything a good cop should be: courageous, quick-witted, calm, aware and not afraid to put his own neck on the line when the situation called for it. Furthermore, Sam was a good friend and had been since the day Jake met him eight years ago. He was the type of guy that would literally give you the shirt off his back or gladly step on a landmine as long as it meant someone else wouldn't have to.

Unfortunately, it was this same generosity and over zealousness that made Foster worry about the young man from time to time. He worried that if Sam kept putting everyone else's well being before his own it could wind up getting him into some serious trouble. For now though, Tubbs was just glad to have his old friend by his side to help keep his head in the game.

"Rain huh?" Jacob said, forcing a tired smile. "I wouldn't be surprised. It would certainly top off this wonderful night shift. Some guys have all the luck eh?"

Sam chuckled. "Amen. So how you doing, chief?"

Sergeant Brocket clenched his gloved hand around Foster's shoulder, squeezed hard, and then took a seat next to him on the cruiser's trunk. The younger, not to mention slimmer, man was decked out in the same gear as his superior but carried his helmet beneath one arm. Sam refused to wear the atrocious thing unless it was going to be an integral part of his safety.

Whenever he would don the protective garment it would afflict him with a wretched condition he referred to as "helmet head". Despite the constant criticism from his squad members to just wear the damn thing and avoid being shot in the head, Sam continued to carry the thing rather than wear it. He would simply laugh and tell them that if he died as a result of a bullet through the brain then at least he would leave this life with wonderful looking hair.

"Feeling a little homesick I guess," came Foster's reply. "You?"

"I've had more fun from being hung over." Sam said ejecting the clip from his weapon, checking it over, and then sliding it back home. "And, believe me, I've had some pretty nasty hangovers."

"Tell us something we don't already know, Sam." A light, female voice quipped from behind the two SWAT team officers.

Approaching the pair with her long, midnight black hair blowing in the breeze was Officer Kathryn Ward. She was close to her twenty-eighth birthday but looked much younger. Strands of dark hair poured over her slender shoulders and around the soft white skin of her neck. Kathryn's hazel eyes, while clouded with fatigue, were aware and twinkling with mirth. In addition to her uniform, a navy blue jacket with the R.P.D. insignia on it also cloaked her lithe figure, keeping the autumn chill at bay.

"Your drinking stories are practically legend around the station." Kathy grinned, standing in front of the young man. "Why I remember Keet telling me that you nearly trampled Detective Montez making a bee-line for the bathroom at the department's Christmas party last year."

A deep chuckle resonated from Sam's throat and smile crossed his lips. He admired, and just plain out liked, Kathryn more than any human being he had ever met. She had endured her fair share of discrimination during her quest to join Raccoon's finest and had still managed to graduate from the academy with flying colors. Every day she came to work during her two-year career she came to work with an upbeat attitude and an unmatched dedication. Kathryn was one of the few cops who still believed in making a difference and cleaning up crime, which Sam couldn't help but respect. It was an easy task becoming friends with Officer Ward.

"Yeah," Sam retorted, "it's too bad you had to miss that party. I mean, you said the stories were legendary after all, you could have been a part of history."

"The Battle for the Toilet Bowl, you mean?" Inquired a new voice, this one as rough as sandpaper being dragged across a rock.

"That's a better name than any I could have come up with, Tredd." Sam replied, half-grinning at the new addition to the conversation.

Sitting a top the roof of cruiser 257, to the trio's left, was the scruffy figure of Officer Benjamin Tredd. Clasped firmly in his scarred hands was the solid weight of a Mossburg twelve-gauge shotgun. The bangs of his greasy dirty-blonde hair fell above thin eyebrows, shedding shadow on his dark beady eyes, hinting that he had not slept well in several days. His sunken cheeks and thin appearance suggested that he had not eaten well in that long either.

Within the walls of Precient 24 Tredd's reputation preceded him. He was the polar opposite of Kathryn in nearly every respect. Known neither for his dedication or tireless pursuit of justice, Ben Tredd was recognized more easily for his cruelty to the lawbreakers he did catch and the corruption that seemed to waft off him like a choking stench. Most, if not all, of his co-workers suspected Ben of being in the pocket of more than one drug dealer or crime lord. Unfortunately there was no hard evidence to tie Officer Tredd to any illegal activities and thus, the anti-social officer was able to stay on the force. This could be considered rather unpleasant news for his new partner.

Due to the shortage of able-bodied officers caused by the outbreak, the Raccoon police were dangerously understaffed. As a result the mayor passed a bill to have thirty new officers, most a day out of the academy, hired on at full pay. Many of these new recruits were instantly assigned to man the barricades constructed around the city. Eddie Gabbor was one of these men and Ben Tredd had been delegated as his training officer.

Eddie stood at the base of the car his partner was sitting on, also clenching a shotgun in a death grip. His bald, dark-skinned head and cheeks were flushed from the cold October air. Fear and anxiety twirled and danced about in his murky green eyes. The baby-faced officer sucked in harsh, uneven gasps, his breath forming a mist in the cool atmosphere before dissipating.

Officer Gabbor was twenty-four years old, a child by police standards and two weeks out of the academy. He had been as green as a stump of broccoli when the Raccoon cops sent for him. The money they offered him had simply been too enticing to pass up and Edward immediately made his way to the city, ready for his first day of work as a boy in blue. Only upon reaching the town did he realize he was not ready at all.

Raccoon City looked to him like the ghost towns he had seen from the historical documentaries he had been forced to watch during grade ten history class. Rarely did he see anyone walk the streets, day or night, during his two-week stay. All around there was a sense of foreboding and anxiousness. Eddie could feel these emotions dripping off his fellow officers like water off a ledge.

His assignment to the west barrier could be described as horrible at best. There was always little time to eat and nearly none to sleep. The new recruit's eyes were bloodshot from the constant watching and his ears hurt as he strained to listen for the signs of the next riot to wash over him like a wave.

By far, the riots were the most dreadful part of this duty. Always fearful of when the next one would spark to life, bringing with it the unruly shouts and violent curses hurled at him along with bricks, stones and liquor bottles. It had been only his third day at the barricade when the newbie had been injured in one such altercation.

Eddie's right hand had been severely cut by the jagged remains of a thrown bottle. A thick bloodstained bandage was now wrapped tightly around the wound. It was his first assignment since leaving the academy and every moment of it made Eddie more and more terrified.

_'I always thought the first couple of months after graduation would be nothing but writing traffic tickets and filling out paperwork.' _The rookie thought remorsefully, wishing he could have had the option of refusing the duty. _'I guess this is my wake-up call. Looks like the R.P.D. found the need to put a little more faith in the abilities of their new recruits. Funny, I never thought I would actually resent that.' _

The only emotions running through Eddie's mind other than fear and despair were annoyance and irritation. Both were directed at his grumbling, sarcastic, weasel of a partner. Ben had shown his charge the basics of policing but other than that he was nothing more than a pain in the neck. A constant, _knifing, _ache in the neck.

Ever since Captain Brown had given Tredd the chore of looking after Eddie and showing him the ropes, the more experienced officer had done all he could to amplify his student's discomfort. Tredd put down Eddie ever chance he got, making an almost heroic effort to show his flaws and inexperience. Some of Ben's favorite names for his partner were "greenhorn", "yellowbelly" (Tredd had been less than sensitive towards Eddie's fright at the current situation), and "brickhead". His partner did little to improve the situation but the rookie enjoyed feeling annoyed more than he did feeling scared so Tredd was a mixed blessing in some regards.

Eddie had been paying scarce attention to the conversation going on behind him, all his attention focused on the street in front of him, and was the first to spot it. Walking around the corner, about twenty feet down the road was a lone figure. Cloaked in shadow, Eddie was only able to discern that the person was tall, muscular and definitely male judging by the broad shoulders and short hair. The mystery man stumbled towards the barrier, tripping over his own feet several times along the way, making low unintelligible noises as he came forward.

_'Must be hammered.' _Eddie thought. _'What better way to forget your troubles than by getting wasted? He still shouldn't be out wandering around this late though, it's after curfew.'_

In an effort to keep citizens from getting injured and discourage looting, Mayor Michael Warren introduced a city curfew. Any citizens caught outside after dark were to be detained. Unfortunately this was a rather difficult law to enforce. The Raccoon police barely had enough personnel to man the barricades, let alone patrol the entire city.

"Hey!" Eddie blurted over his shoulder, leaning across the cruiser for a better look at the subject. "I've got something – someone I mean. Looks like he's drunk or something."

Jacob, Sam, and Kathryn turned around at Eddie's shout. The squat S.W.A.T. commander mounted the top of the squad car he had been leaning against and squinted out into the darkness. It took him only a moment to spot the shambling man. The darkness around the figure broke for a moment as he shuffled beneath a streetlight. Jacob watched and felt his heart miss a beat.

Damp brown hair was matted to the man's skull and large muscles bulged under his skin. He wore the tattered remains of blue jeans and a black t-shirt, now stained with blood and what appeared to be vomit. Pale green eyes sat sunken deep into his sockets. The civilian's face was deathly white; loose chunks of skin hanging by a thread here and there. The shambler let out a soft moan, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.

"He's not drunk" Jake mused, more to himself than anyone else, "he's hurt. Someone get a first-aid kit here pronto! Jenkins get over here with that loudspeaker! Sam, get on the radio and tell the dispatch to send an ambulance up here A.S.A.P. Tell them we've got a wounded man."

"You've got it, Tubbs." Sam raced around and pulled open the door of the cruiser he had been resting on.

The trooper reached in for the car's radio – and stopped. Through the cruiser's passenger side window he saw one, two, then three more people in street clothes limp around the corner. More seemed to be coming every second: Tall and skinny, fat and squat, men and women. They all came into view, grunting mindlessly as they bumped into one another then continued towards the barricade. As each one passed beneath the row of streetlights Sam felt his chest tighten and heart quicken its pace.

Pale flesh hung loosely from their faces and arms, revealing slimy muscle and glistening sinew. They wore all manner of clothes: t-shirts, jeans, business suits, hospital uniforms, all drenched in crimson fluid and torn to shreds. White, dead eyes peered out at the officers, instilling them with sheer, icy terror. The shambling horde extended their arms as they shuffled forward, moans emanating from their throats. Wet, hungry moans.

"Monsters." Sam whispered to himself as the word came to mind.

"What the fuck is wrong with them?" Tredd spat, voice shaking a bit as he cocked his shotgun and rested the butt against his shoulder.

"Hold your fire! Nobody shoot!" Foster ordered to the assembled officers, many had also turned their weapons on the rapidly forming crowd. Another of the black clad S.W.A.T. troopers charged down the row of cars and handed a white megaphone up to Jacob.

Sam looked up at his friend and superior, listening as Foster's voice boomed out over the loudspeaker. Normally the stocky sergeant's tone was calm and gentle, now it was filled with the force and authority of one twice his stature. More of the creatures continued to join the mob as Foster spoke, their numbers growing to at least forty or fifty.

"This is Sergeant Foster of the R.P.D!" He barked at the crowd of rotting Raccoon citizens. "Please refrain from approaching the barricade! Do not come any further! If you require medical attention please let us know and we will contact ambulances for you."

Jacob's uncharacteristically authoritative tone of voice did nothing to halt the ever-expanding crowd. They continued to hobble forward, less than ten feet from the police blockade. The chilling moans and groans of the monsters filling the air.

Sam unslung his MP5 and leaned across the cruiser, taking aim. Many of the other officers took up similar positions, readying their weapons while others stood frozen in place. They starred out over the swarm of creatures with shock and disbelieving expressions painted across their tense features.

"Hold your fire!" Foster screamed to his troops once more, then brought the megaphone back to his lips again. "I repeat: Do not come any closer. If you refuse to stop we will be forced to take action against you! Please disperse."

The Raccoon citizens seemed not to hear or care and stumbled forward. Closer and closer the horde came, their mouths gapping and hands reaching. Wails of hunger and torment traveled through the October night, carrying with it the putrid stench of spoiled fruit. The amassed officers looked to Jacob with askance etched into their faces.

Foster felt sweat trickle down his brow as he repeated his warning to the throng of civilians once more. Ignoring the husky S.W.A.T. commander the crowd continued its advance. They were no more than five feet from the barricade.

"Sarge?" Jenkins asked beside his superior.

"Jake?" Sam's voice leapt into Foster's ear.

"H-holy shit!" Eddie stuttered in panic. "They're getting closer!"

"Put a lid on it, brickhead." Tredd scolded his partner who seemed on the edge of hysteria from his wild-eyed expression. "They can't hear you, chief. This might be a good time to hand out some orders to us grunts."

_'Shoot!' _Foster's mind screamed. _'Give the order to shoot!'_

Jacob stood frozen atop the roof of the squad car. He gazed out over the sea of monstrosities and felt his courage breaking. A mob of armed rioters would be better than this walking nightmare, he thought, but how could he fire on them? They were still citizens of Raccoon City, people he had met at the supermarket, seen shopping in the malls or riding the bust to work in the morning. How could he bring himself to hurt these people?

"Tear gas!" Tubbs belted out the words at last. "Fire a volley of tear gas. Aim for the center of the crowd."

From either end of the police barrier came the _whump _of a grenade launcher. The tear gas canisters left smoking trails behind them before crashing down on the pavement, in the midst of the seventy-person cluster. Thick white clouds rose up from beneath the walking horrors but left the officers on the whole untouched.

The creatures did not slow down an inch. On the contrary, to the amazement and terror of the police, they pressed forward through the blanket of chemical fog. All of them, Sergeant Foster included stood in dumfounded shock as the mutants reached the outer edge of the barricade.

"Well," Officer Tredd muttered to himself, unusually calm. "Time for plan B then."

From his vantage point atop the cruiser, Benjamin centered his shotgun on the nearest of the mob, a man in a torn blue business suit whose nose seemed to have disintegrated. The man looked up at the scruffy officer who only winked and pulled back on the trigger. The blast from the Mossburg brought the others out of their dazed stupor. All eyes moved to the man Tredd had just blown a hole through.

Crimson blood erupted from a heinous wound in the businessman's chest, spraying the road. Flesh peeled away as the shell's pellets tore his torso apart, leaving areas seared by gunpowder burns. The man exhaled a pitiful sigh and crumpled to the ground – then let out a mighty groan and rose to his feet once more.

"What the..." Ben starred in awe as the corpse, or at least what _should _have been a corpse, continued towards him.

"My God," Foster muttered, feeling panic squeezing his heart, "what are they?"

The S.W.A.T. commander was in a daze. The horde of monsters or demons or whatever they were continued to close in. They were so close that Foster could smell them. His nostrils were filled with a pungent, foul stench. The odor of urine and rotten garbage; a smell of death. A smell of disease. Yet, despite all this, he could not react, it was all too surreal. Too much like a dream – or a nightmare.

"Chief!" Sam Brocket shouted, pulling at Foster's pant leg with one hand, snapping the older man from his trance. "We're about to be overrun!"

With a quick look Jacob saw this to be true. The mass of creatures was no more than two feet away. Non-lethal measures had failed. Jacob did not understand why but they had and that left him with only one other option.

"Fire!" He bellowed from the squad car's roof. "Everything you've got!"

The frightened officers needed no further prompting. It took only a moment to snap the safeties off their weapons and pull the trigger. A hail of hot lead ripped through the ranks of the rotting residents, punching bloody holes through their chest, bellies, arms and legs. Blood trickled down their decaying forms, flowing freely into the streets. Metallic casings clattered onto the pavement. The noise of the heavy shotguns drowning out the smaller weapons. The stench of gunpowder and stale blood filling the senses of every officer, making many feel as if they would be sick. Still the creatures came, pressing through the barrage of gunfire as if it were nothing but a stiff breeze.

The army of walking dead had reached the barriers. They struggled and crawled across the hoods of the vehicles and concrete blocks barring their path. Bullets slapped into their flesh. Shotgun rounds tore massive sections out of their sides and still they came, breaking upon the west barricade like water upon rock. What had once been the decent, hardworking citizens of Raccoon City reached the officers struggling to keep them at bay.

The squad car beneath Jacob's feet rocked violently as the creatures slammed against it. They moaned their displeasure at this thing impeding their path. Fighting off the primal terror brewing in his gut Foster lowered his weapon and pumped three rounds into one of his attackers chest. Three holes punched across the man's dirty sweatshirt, spilling rivulets of dark blood. The man groaned a sticky, wet noise but did not seem to care about the mortal wound he had just suffered. Instead he continued his assault against the police cruiser, shattering the passenger side window with his bare hand.

"What the fuck are these things!" The portly officer demanded, firing another three round volley from his MP5 into the same man with the same, useless effect.

This time the man focused his attention on Jacob. While he did not have an answer to his question it seemed he did not take kindly to being shot six times either. The man snarled, revealing dirty yellow and brown teeth, then wrapped his peeling hands around Foster's boot. With surprising strength the man – the living corpse – yanked the S.W.A.T. commander off his feet.

Jacob let out a gasp of surprise as he felt his feet leave him and then one of pain as his back connected with the roof of the cruiser. His brain scrambled from the fall, it took the chubby sergeant a moment to realize he was being drug across the top of the car by a pair of the rotting citizens. The two gnashed their teeth in eager anticipation, saliva dripping over their cracked lips.

_'Holy shit!' _The thought raced through Foster's mind at light speed. _'They're going to eat me.'_

The chubby officer's first instinct was not to fire but to find a suitable handhold. He had had to find something to grab onto. If the two walking corpses were able to pull him out into the perpetual sea of their fellows it would be all over for Jacob "Tubbs" Foster.

_'They'll eat me whole.' _He thought. _'They're going to rip me limp from limb while I scream bloody murder. Their teeth ripping through my skin and there's enough of that to go around for sure. My blood running out into the street...'_

"I've got other plans!" Tubbs cried defiantly, latching onto the cruisers flashers with every ounce of strength he possessed.

Whatever the residents of Raccoon City had become they would have to earn their meal. Summoning up his might, Foster managed to pull one foot free and drove his boot firmly into the face of one of the creatures. He felt the man's nose crush under the sole of his Nomex boot. The zombie – what _else _could those things be – fell to the ground with blood streaming down its ashen face. Another quickly moved in to take its place, sinking its teeth into the thick leather heel of Jacob's boot. He screamed out in disgust as the battle raged on around him.

The S.W.A.T. commander felt his grip on the squad cars flashers weakening. Pain raced up his legs as the monsters pulled frantically at him, trying to dislodge his hold, their powerful, grasping hands nearly crushing his ankles. Slowly, one by one, his pudgy fingers began to loosen around the casing of the car's lights. Foster knew his death was certain and struggled to get a better handle on his MP5. If he would die it would not be without a fight.

Foster managed to wrap his hand around the weapon's pistol grip when felt what at the time was the most wonderful feeling in the world. Two hands, two warm, living hands, latched onto his wrists and were pulling the stocky commander in the opposite direction. For a moment, Jacob feared he might be ripped in twain but then he began to feel the grip of the undead breaking. The pale, decaying fingers released their hold on his feet and the two hands were dragging him back to safety. Foster hit the pavement and then Sam Brocket was helping him up. Next to him was a wild-eyed Kathryn Ward, firing her sidearm at Foster's attackers.

"You okay, chief?" Sam asked, shouting to be heard above the chaos.

"I'm fine." Jacob replied, feeling anything but. "Thanks for saving my bacon."

"No problem, Tubbs." Sam cracked a smile, which quickly turned into an expression of terror. "Get down!"

Without another word, the second in command shoved his superior to the floor and raised his sub-machine gun. One of the monsters had climbed his way over the cruiser after taking four rounds from Kathy's 9mm pistol. The zombie staggered toward Sam with startling speed and would have taken Jacob by complete surprise if not for his sub-ordinates keen eyes. Sam reacted on instinct, bringing the MP5 up and releasing a short three-round burst. The shot was an incredibly lucky one.

During training Sam had always been taught to aim for the target's center mass as it was much easier to hit than any other part of a subject's body. This time though, the rounds found their way to his target's head. The 9mm bullets tore through the creature's forehead. Blood flowed down over the man's face from three small holes. His carcass sagged lifelessly to the ground – and did not rise.

At first Sam was stunned, having fully expected the man to get up and keep on coming. Yet the body just there, blood pooling beneath the skull. Finally he found his voice.

"The head!" He screamed, uncertain if anyone could hear him above the torrent of painful screams and the thunder of gunfire. "Shoot them in the fucking head!"

Officer Benjamin Tredd dumped his last shotgun shell into the upper body of a rotting bearded fellow before he heard Sam's urgent shout. Tredd immediately abandoned the Mossburg, letting it clatter down onto the road and drew his Beretta instead. Taking careful aim, he popped off two shots into the man's peeling cranium. The body dropped and stayed down.

Tredd felt no relief though. The monsters – whatever the hell they were – had him surrounded. They had the police blockade overwhelmed. He did the only thing he could and continued to fire into the decaying, puss covered faces that were closing in on him from every direction at once.

Just as the thought entered Ben's mind that he was running low on ammunition, below him Eddie Gabbor screamed. Then, everyone was screaming.

"Get back!" Eddie cried in a panic, unloading shot after shot into a group of the approaching undead. "Stay away from me damn it!"

His eyes wide with fear and disbelief Eddie continued to fire, taking quick steps back as he did. This was all some kind of bad dream to him. One where the dead had risen and were reaching for him with blackened hands and white, cataract eyes set into their emaciated faces. Yellow teeth dripped with gooey saliva as the smell of his warm flesh awakened their inhuman hunger.

"Get away!" The rookie screamed again, pumping another twelve gauge round into the group with little effect.

The creatures continued to press forward. Blood dripped from the buckshot wounds in their torsos but they seemed not to mind. Moans escaped from their bleached lips. Ravenous moans underlining their need to feed.

"For God's sake someone help me!" Officer Gabbor had learned during training never to loose your cool in the face of danger. Usually that meant when someone pulled a gun or knife on you, not when you were besieged by hordes of the living dead. He was finding it rather difficult to remain calm and focused.

All the young cop could hear was screaming. It took him a moment to realize they were coming from the other officers. While he screamed in fear they seemed to be screaming in pain and agony. The steady crack of gunfire grew softer as the wailing of the Raccoon police grew louder.

Eddie fired another shogtun blast, tearing apart one of the creatures bellies. Dark fluids splashed onto the asphalt as a piece of intestine snaked out of the shattered stomach. Eddie thought he might be sick from the sight alone. He backed up one more step and tripped over something. With a grunt and a twist of his head, Eddie turned to look at what it was he had just slipped on. The feeling of being sick intensified.

"Oh...oh God." Officer Gabbor murmured, unaware that he had spoken at all. Beside him lay the remains of what had once been a fellow officer.

The man lay face up on the road, his eyes wide but sightless, starring at the sky with an empty look Blood flowed from a gaping wound in his neck, staining the blue collar of the uniform he wore. The officer's throat had been crudely torn out.

It was only now that Eddie got a chance to survey his surroundings. The creatures had overwhelmed the barricade through sheer numbers, driving the officers that stood guard back. The cops continued to fire into the mob but the stumbling, groaning horde of the living dead seemed not to feel the sting of the hot lead tearing through their bodies. Eddie watched in horror as the monsters grappled with the frightened police, digging their teeth deep into the soft flesh of their necks. The cops shrieked in pain and then fell to the road as the cannibals piled on top of them to continue their feast. Eddie saw the decaying monsters sink their teeth into the bellies, arms and legs of the police officers who struggled weakly before going limp. A deep moaning noise brought the dark-skinned back to his present predicament.

He was laying on his backside as three of the wretched things tumbled closer with outstretched arms. Fearing that he was about to meet the same fate as his peers, Eddie brought up the heavy Mossburg once more. He pulled the trigger and heard the worst sound of his life. _Click. _The weapon was empty.

"That's just great fucking timing!" Eddie swore, scrambling away from the hungry creatures. "Help! Fucking, help me!"

With the shotgun empty the logical thing to do would have been to switch to the 9mm sidearm the force carried. Edward Gabbor had abandoned logic long ago though, tossed it aside when walking corpses had begun to devour his co-workers. Panic gripped his mind and heart, causing him to forget about the pistol strapped to his hip. All he could focus on was what was in his hands.

Fumbling around in the pocket of his jacket Eddie felt the cool metal of the twelve gauge shells almost instantly. Withdrawing a pair of them he hastily tried to thumb them into the chamber of the Mossburg. The panic began to spread even further now, reaching his hands and making them tremble as the creatures drew ever closer, the smell of death and disease washing over the panicked officer, threatening to choke him it was so strong. Try as he might, the shells simply would not fit into the chamber.

"Fuck!" He exclaimed, desperately trying to force in the ammunition, risking a glance at the trio of rotting figures. "God! Get the fuck away from me! Help me! Someone fucking help me!"

To his left came the steady pop of a handgun. Two rounds punched through the head of the nearest creature and he crumpled bonelessly to the ground. There was a single pop this time and the second of the three fell, a bullet ripping through its right temple. Running footsteps slapped the road by Eddie's ear and the sound of a handgun echoed three more times. The third creature hit the ground, one eye obliterated by the 9mm.

"Ben?" Eddie said, half in elation and half in surprise as he looked up at his savior. His training officer was not someone he ever thought he would be looking to as a hero.

"Yeah, it's me." The stern-faced Tredd seemed to be having no problem keeping his cool as he ejected the spent magazine and slapped in a fresh one. "You scream like a fucking pussy you know that, newbie?"

_'Oh good,' _the rookie thought sarcastically despite the situation, _'he's got a new one for me.'_

"Get on your feet, brickhead!" Ben snapped sharply at his partner, hauling him up by the scruff of the neck.

There were more moaning noises as the creatures continued to climb over the barricade towards the frantic officers. Towards their meal. Ben yanked Eddie backwards with one hand and fired at the mob of undead with the other, not trying to kill them only trying to hold them off so that the brickhead and himself could get to higher ground.

The crack of gunfire so close to his ears stirred Officer Gabbor back to action, the shotgun barked twice in his hands, the heavy rounds knocking a pair of the rotting citizens to the ground where so many other bodies already lay. Once again the Mossburg clicked on empty and Eddie remembered he had no spare shells left. Luckily the rookie also had the presence of mind to remember the pistol holstered at his hip. Tossing the shotgun aside Eddie drew his Beretta and opened fire as the two shambling corpses regained their feet and stumbled forward.

"Put one through their damn heads and they stay down!" Tredd bellowed in Eddie's ear, still dragging him up the street.

Benjamin took a moment to aim and then fired a single shot through the forehead of a woman with one arm. The lady hit the ground with a brief grunt. Blood pooled beneath her head and she did not rise. Taking this as his queue Eddie took aim and fired, too overwhelmed by what was happening to care that his partner was dragging him backwards like a dog on a leash.

Eddie's shot was sloppy, he fire two rounds into one of the creatures necks, swore and sent his third shot through the monster's nose. The man he shot fell and did not get back up.

"I just killed someone." The rookie mumbled as the magnitude of his actions finally hit home.

Ben Tredd heard what the yellowbelly said and opened his mouth to firmly chastise the young man but another voice drowned his out. A shaky, panicked voice. Jacob Foster's voice.

"Retreat!" Foster screamed, firing his MP5 full-auto into the wall of creatures pressing its way towards Sam, Kathy and himself. "Retreat!"

"Last one!" Kathryn shouted, slapping a new clip into her pistol and pumping five rounds into the chest of a man in a bloodstained jacket. He groaned, almost irritably, and kept coming.

"Damn it!" Sam yelled, opening up on the group of freaks with his sub-machine gun. He hoped the suppressive fire would keep the monsters at bay but he was sadly mistaken. The horde of gore stained men and women were knocked around by the spray of nine-millimeters but barely halted their clumsy advance. Foster's spray had the same effect. "There's too many of these guys! We need a place to run, chief. Where to, Tubbs?"

"That's a good question." Foster muttered, quickly changing magazines. He heard screams cut short by sickening crunching and chewing sounds. His men were being eaten alive for God's sake! He had to do something and it had to be done fast.

They needed to get back to the precient, rearm and regroup, but how? Jacob surveyed the street as quickly as he could. Tall buildings stood on all sides, closing them in. Escape seemed slim... and then he saw it.

"That alley over there!" He thrust a chubby finger in the direction of a small alleyway between a shoe-repair store and a paint shop. "It leads out onto Maple then goes all the way up to Eaglehead. We can get to the station from there."

"On foot?" Kathryn sounded dubious as she unloaded another pair of bullets into the mob. All she could hear was the crack of her Beretta and the pain-filled screams of her comrades.

"Got any better ideas?" Foster replied firing another suppressive burst as Sam paused to reload. Kathryn was forced to admit that she did not and shook her head.

"Alright then," Jacob said, huffing and puffing, trying not to panic. "Everyone make for that alleyway!"

It was then that he realized that there was no one left to order. Looking around Tubbs could see it was down to Kath, Sam and himself. The others were dead. Now they served as meals for these monsters that tore their flesh from the bone and swallowed it whole. He heard gunfire but it was too distant and there were too many of the cannibals in the way for him to tell where it was coming from.

_'Oh Jesus,' _the commander thought, guilt seeping into his eyes, _'it's all my fault. I was in charge. They were counting on me. Oh no, why? We all just wanted to go home!'_

Jacob's second in command read his face. "It's not your fault, chief!" Sam shouted in his senior's ear, firing another quick burst. "Operational losses, Tubbs! We have to worry about keeping us alive now, okay?"

Foster nodded. He did not believe in the concept of operational losses and knew Sam didn't really either. These were all people with families and friends. People with hopes, dreams and futures. You could not just write them off as a casualty and just forget about it. Sam was right though, Foster had to worry about keeping them alive now. There would be time to mourn after they got back to safety.

_'Fight now, cry later.' _His mind told him as Tubbs trained his weapon on the crumbling skull elderly-looking man. The creature moaned as the barrel pointed his way. Jacob pressed the trigger and sent the last five rounds in his clip through the man's head. A section of the skull blew away in a gory display and the undead abomination fell to the ground.

"I'm out!" Kathryn said, firing off her last pistol round.

"Make for the alley!" Jacob screamed, he could hear shouting and the crack of pistol fire in the distance. "Kathy, you first, then Sam and then me. Go now and run fast!"

Needing no further prompting the young lady shot a final glance at her friends and took off towards the alleyway. She leapt over the body of S.W.A.T. member Chuck Jenkins. He had one arm nearly torn clean off and there was a huge gash in his neck. Choking back tears Kathy continued to run.

"Go yellowbelly!" Ben shouted, giving his partner a shove up the sidewalk. "Run you bastard!"

The two of them had been cut off from the rest of the group – what remained of it at least – by the bloodthirsty creatures. Benjamin was vaguely aware that they were on Trestville Avenue, the opposite side of Maple. That didn't matter to him all that mattered was to put as much distance between the hungry freaks and themselves.

"Where are we running to, Ben?" Eddie screamed, sounding like he was about to lose it.

"Away from them!" Came the reply as Officer Tredd fired three more rounds through the face of one of the undead that relentlessly pursued them.

"Ben, we need to..."

"Don't tell me what we need!" Tredd silenced his partner, turning his back on the creatures and forcing the rookie cop up the sidewalk at full speed. "Just beat your feet!"

Too confused and frightened to do anything else, Officer Edward Gabbor did as he was told.

"Go, Sam! Now!" Foster ordered, still firing bursts from his MP5 into the tireless mob.

"Got it, buddy." Sam hollered and turned to run.

Samuel could see Kathryn was well ahead of him already and he hurried to catch up. Slinging the sub-machine gun around his neck, Sam started pumping his legs. So focused on the haven of the alleyway was he that he didn't notice the pool of blood he was about to step in. The wet, slippery fluid knocked him off balance and sent the trooper tumbling to the asphalt.

Feeling a sharp pain in his knee Sam glanced over to see that the blood he had just stepped in belonged to Sergeant Chuck Jenkins. Chuck's face was closed and there was a terrible wound in his neck. For a moment, looking at the corpse, Sam wanted to throw up. Chuck was a good guy, a single father and now he was dead. Chuck was dead and Foster was yelling at him.

"Sam! Fuck, watch out kid!"

Sergeant Brocket twisted his head to see what all the commotion was about. He felt his heart stop. One of the creatures, a man in dirty jeans with a peeling forehead and brown finger nails, had broken past Jacob and now stood over him. Sam managed to swing his MP5 around but then the creature was on top of him, pushing him to the ground.

He was strong for a dead guy Sam had to admit. The man's decaying hands held the struggling trooper firmly in place. He could feel the creature's warm, putrid, foul smelling breath against the skin of his neck. The man's tongue snaked out and pressed against Sam's flesh. The young trooper cried out in fear and disgust, pressing the barrel of his weapon into his attacker's abdomen and held the trigger down.

The close proximity of the shot tore the man's stomach to pieces. Cold blood washed over the barrel of Sam's gun, down his hand and onto his uniform. It smelled so pungent, so rotten that Sam thought he might be sick. His assailant however, seemed unaffected by his shattered stomach. The gun clicked empty, forcing Sergeant Brocket to try and push the man off of him. He managed to get the walking cadaver halfway off, grunting with exertion and found himself starring the man right in the face.

A moment later, the horrid visage of death was removed from Sam's view. With a mighty war cry that betrayed his small stature, Foster hauled the creature off Sam and slammed it to the ground. It was now his turn to engage in a wrestling match with the man. Sam took the opportunity to quickly get to his feet and draw a bead on the monster's cranium and fire.

_Click. Click. Click._

"You're fucking kidding me!" Sam screamed in frustration, realizing his weapon was empty and he had no more ammunition for it. Releasing his hold on the MP5, Brocket drew his Heckler & Koch .40 from his holster and took aim. It was too difficult to get a clear shot with the struggle going on. The man had Jacob pinned down and Sam couldn't pull the trigger for fear of hitting his boss.

"What are you waiting for?" Foster demanded. "Shot him! Shot him in the head, Sam!"

"I can't get a clean shot!" Sam responded, afraid for his friend but also aware that the horde of walking corpses was closing in on them.

Grunting and groaning Foster struggled with the decaying man. He was toast if he couldn't get Sam a clean shot but doing that was easier said than done. Dead or not the creature on top of him was eerily strong. Digging deep Foster summoned up every ounce of physical might his five-foot frame possessed. With a final grunt he managed to push the man's head up, trying not to look at its dead, disgusting face. The stocky commander placed a hand under the cannibal's chin to prop the man's face up, sliding another hand over the creature's face to keep him steady.

Foster bellowed in anguish as he felt teeth sink deep into his palm. The hand he held over the man's face had proved a mistake as it gave the creature an easy opening to cause some damage. The man tore off a hunk of flesh from the side of Foster's meaty palm and, to his dazed horror, swallowed the skin whole.

Abruptly there was the thick crack of an H&K .40 and the side of the monster's head exploded, splattering blood and brain matter across the ground. The carcass sagged limply onto the S.W.A.T. commander and, with a repulsed groan he shoved the body off him. Then Sam was lifting him up with one arm and dragging him towards the alleyway.

"Sorry chief," Sam apologized, sounding rather pissed off with himself. "I couldn't get a fucking shot at the bastard. Thanks for saving my ass back there. Can't believe I frigin' tripped. You alright?"

"Yeah," Foster winced, holding his injured hand close to his body. It stung and there was blood but it didn't look too serious. "Took a bite out of me but nothing a band-aid or two won't cure."

"That's ironic isn't it?" Sam actually cracked a smile. "Something trying to eat you for a change."

"Tell me about it." Jacob replied with a nervous chuckle.

The two reached the alley where a concerned looking Kathryn inquired about both men's health. Each assured the female officer they were fine.

Behind them the creatures, citizens of Raccoon seemed more content to feast on the newly dead they chase targets that ran and shot at them. Jacob saw this and quickly mentioned that they should keep moving. None of them wanted to watch the feeding frenzy about to take place. The trio hastily made for the other side of the alley where the buildings were dark, empty and cold.

"What the fuck!" Sam bellowed, panting to catch his breath. "Tell me those weren't zombies. What is this, _The Night of the Living Dead_? Someone please tell me what the fuck is going on here!"

"I wish I could kid," Foster panted as well, his face flushed, "but I'm still in the dark about this too. None of this makes any sense. Everyone back there was just eaten! Like in that cannibal murderers case last year. Maybe there's a connection or something, I don't know."

"I thought the papers and Chief Irons discredited the S.T.A.R.S. findings though?" Asked Kathryn. "They said they were a bunch of drug addicts or something."

"Yeah, well, I don't know what to believe anymore." Sam sighed.

"Okay, okay." Jake said, trying to keep a lid on things. "We are in a very bad situation but we can't get all crazy. We can worry about conspiracy theories later, for now we need to focus on the present and staying alive. That means we need to radio into the precient and get back there pronto. I'm sure William and the Assistant Chief will know what's going on and how to handle it."

Sam tried his radio then swore when he got nothing but static. "Radios are out." He said simply.

"Maybe we're out of range?" Kathryn suggested.

"Doubtful." Foster replied, feeling his uneasiness growing. "These things are designed to keep us in contact with the dispatchers at the station no matter how far we are from the department."

"Okay, so we've got no radio and no car." Sam stated somberly. "What do we do now?"

"We walk." Tubbs answered, knowing it wasn't the response either of them wanted but it was the only one he had to give. "Except I'm willing to bet a dollar to doughnuts that the streets are crawling with those things by now and we have a lot of ground to cover. Before we go any further, how are we set for ammo?"

"My MP5 is dry." Sam replied, frustrated, tapping the empty weapon. "I've got my pistol though, right rounds in the clip plus another two magazines after that."

Jacob nodded. "Kathy?"

"Fired every bullet I had." She shook her head. "I'm pretty much defenseless since I doubt pepper spray is going to do much good against those things and I don't really want to get close enough to use my night stick."

"Alright, take my sidearm then." Foster handed over his H&K. 40 to Officer Ward along with a pair of clips. She thanked him and stuck her empty Beretta back in its holster.

"I've got fifteen rounds left in my MP5 and then an extra clip after that. It's not great but it'll have to do. One hit, one kill. Put it through their heads if you have to."

"They aren't too fast," Kathy commented, "we can probably dodge them if they're spaced out enough."

Foster nodded. "Good idea. Still got your flashbangs, Sam?"

"Yeah, all three." His subordinate nodded. "You actually think they're going to do any good against those freaks? Shit, bullets didn't even slow them down!"

"Maybe but they still have to see us to get us," said the chubby commander, "maybe a flashbang will scramble their circuits a bit. Anyways, enough chit-chat let's get going."

"Not a moment too soon either." Kathryn said drearily as the hungry moans began to sound again. The zombies were done with the main course and were now looking for some dessert.

"Let's go." Jacob said and the trio began to jog up the street.

Overhead there was the crash of thunder followed by the steady drizzle of rain. _'Perfect.' _Jacob thought. _'That's just perfect.' _Without a word they continued to move up Maple Street.


	5. Unhappy Landings

**Chapter 4: Unhappy Landings**

October 1, 1998

6:10 PM

Outskirts of the North Barricade

Pain screamed through his head, swiftly and abruptly. His eyes felt heavy. The pain made his thoughts convoluted and erratic. For several moments he had no idea what had happened or where he was. For several long moments he had no idea who he was.

Then, as swiftly and abruptly as the pain had passed through his head, it all came back to him. The mission. The helicopter. The explosion. Captain Sullivan yelling and finally the crash. A moment later, still stuck in darkness, identity returned to him as well. Yes, it was certainly a glorious day to be Ezekiel Wilcott.

With no small deal of effort the lieutenant opened his eyes. He surveyed the crumpled remains of the Night Hawk's cabin and saw that the chopper had taken quite a beating but all his teammates appeared alive and healthy – if a little shaken up. Zeke was not the least bit surprised to see Captain Sullivan checking on the other Rangers, making sure they were alert and ready for action. It gave Zeke a great deal of relief to know he was in the hands of such a capable and competent leader.

With the captain looking after the others, Zeke turned his attention to himself. Luckily he didn't have any serious cuts or lacerations and nothing felt broken. He did have a monstrous headache though and soon discovered why.

During the crash the wall behind him had warped, jutted out and smacked him upside the cranium. There was a considerable dent in his helmet for further proof. Groaning, Zeke removed the uncomfortable thing and let it clatter to the floor. While he was grateful that it had probably saved his life he still hated the damn thing.

Reaching behind him the lieutenant felt a thick bump forming on the back of his skull. It stung a bit but he was conscious and knew his name so he probably didn't have a concussion at least. Across from him, Wesley grunted his displeasure.

"What the bloody hell happened?" The Brit asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

"We dropped like a fucking rock is what." Corporal Joseph Cooper replied, unstrapping himself.

"Everyone alright?" Zeke asked, removing his straps and checking his weapon, aware they were now in hostile territory and rather vulnerable.

"My back hurts but I'll survive." Ryan Pierce answered, loading his Remington rifle.

"Good to go." Sergeant Owens reported, sounding anything but. The other Rangers gave similar answers.

"Pilot, how are you doing up there?" Sullivan hollered, moving towards the cockpit.

"Not good." Rachel replied, her tone shaky and upset. "Greg – he's, he's dead captain."

Rachel removed her trembling fingers from the neck of her co-pilot. There was no pulse. The young man's face was pressed up against the shattered windshield and dripping blood. Zeke could plainly see the look of anguish and remorse written across the woman's face. Captain Sullivan came up behind and checked Greg Harris' pulse himself, just to make sure, then shook his head and turned to Major Parker.

"I'm sorry," he said in a tone that was stolid and steady, "but we're going to have to leave him here for now. Don't worry, we'll send a team back for his body ASAP but we need to get organized and to higher ground first. Okay?"

Rachel nodded. "Yes, sir."

Sullivan turned back to his troops. "As for the rest of you," he began, "I want your gear ready and weapons checked in the next minute. Then we're heading for the north barricade on foot. We'll figure out what went wrong with the chopper later, for now I want to get us someplace safer than the middle of the damn street."

Zeke took a glance out one of the chopper's windows. They had, indeed, crashed down in the middle of the damn street. Precisely they had landed in the middle of an intersection that split in four directions. There were small shops and homes lining the sidewalks, all cold and dark inside. Streetlamps dotted the area, shedding illumination on – _'People?' _Zeke thought, looking at the human shadows spreading across the ground.

"Captain!" Zeke shouted, trying to keep the uneasiness he felt out of his voice. "I think we've got some company on this side."

The captain stalked over and peered out the cabin window. The others on that side of the chopper did likewise.

"What the hell are they doing out here?" Sullivan murmured, increasing the unease of Lieutenant Wilcott. If Curtis Sullivan didn't know what was going on, something bad had to be in store. "I thought there was supposed to be a curfew in effect. Everyone saddle up! Possible hostiles approaching from the west side of the intersection."

"Make that on both sides, captain!" Wesley called, point a finger out what was left of the window on his side.

"They're boxing us in, sir." Scott added from beside Wes.

"Coming from the north too!" Rachel Parker said from up front, her voice a harsh gasp. "Oh God, something's wrong with them. Something's wrong with their faces."

This report, coupled with the edge of fear in the pilot's voice, made Zeke's blood run cold. In an instant all the newscasts he had heard returned to him. Everything about the mysterious skin disease. Everything about the madness it drove those infected with it to. Everything about the cannibal murders five months ago.

"Everyone stay calm." Sullivan ordered, the authority in his voice helping to soothe the nerves of the assembled Rangers. "Cooper, get the door open on your side, Zeke do the same on ours. We file out in lines of five to the front of the bird. Weapons are tight unless action is taken upon you. On my signal...now! Go!" Sullivan dropped his hand, Cooper and Zeke yanked the chopper doors open and moved fast to the front of the Night Hawk with their fellows in tow.

"Line!" Sullivan shouted when the company of Rangers reached the nose of the crippled helicopter. Immediately the soldiers formed a rigid row around the Night Hawk. They brought their weapons to bear, training them on the shambling figures that converged in the darkness. The captain took aim at one of the shadowy figures and spoke in that calm, sturdy, authoritative voice of his. Each word powerful and clear.

"This is Captain Curtis Sullivan of the United States Army Rangers speaking to you!" He said, there was no hint of fright in his words. "This city is under curfew, return to your homes at once or you will be subject to arrest!"

"Good luck doing that." Zeke whispered so that only he could hear. "There must be dozens of them."

"I repeat!" The captain yelled. "Return to your homes at once or my men will place you under arrest! I will not warn you again!"

The mass of citizens did not seem to care about Sullivan's warning. They did not even seem to hear the Ranger captain at all. They hobbled forward, closing in on the line of soldiers. Their feet dragged the pavement, making soft whispering sounds.

"Cripes," Wes spoke in Zeke's ear, looking down the sight of his M-4. "You think they would have noticed the ten people pointing guns at them by now."

Zeke gulped. It appeared they did not. The bystanders wandered closer, oblivious to the automatic weapons centered on their bodies. The ones nearest the row of Rangers extend their arms and moaned. The sounds they uttered brought back images of every zombie movie Zeke had ever seen.

_'Someone pinch me.' _He thought, taking aim at a man in a wrinkled windbreaker who seemed to have taken a particular interest in the lieutenant and shuffled his way.

As the men and women pouring into the streets drew closer, the shadows that surrounded their bodies grew thinner. Pale, decaying flesh hung loosely on glistening white bones. A milky fluid filled cold, dead eyes. Stains of dirt and blood clung to the tattered remains of their clothes. Sinew and muscles tendons were revealed in a sickening display. The scent of spoiled fruit and week old garbage invaded Zeke's nostrils, making him want to gag.

"Their eyes," he choked out in a whisper to Wesley, trying to keep his hands from shaking, "look at their eyes, Wes."

"I know." Came the reply and Zeke did not like the tremor he heard in his friend's voice.

"Are they infected with that virus, captain?" Pierce asked, crouching at the front of the line.

"I don't know." Captain Sullivan began and that was enough to make Lieutenant Wilcott even more nervous. He didn't think the captain was even aware those words existed. "There's blood on their clothes and we saw heavy rioting on our way in. Maybe they got caught up in one."

"This _many?_" Owens sounded incredulous.

"Yes, this man, Owens." Sullivan snapped back, looking annoyed that one of his subordinates had questioned his judgment. "Sergeant Judges?"

"Yes, captain?" The team's medic, Kirk Judges, said from his spot in the formation.

"Get your first-aid kit ready and go check on Parker," replied the Ranger leader. "We'll take care of things here."

With a nod, Judges lowered his rifle and jogged around to the pilot's seat. The mob of Raccoon civilians continued to encircle the Rangers. Sweat was beginning to crawl down past the brim of Sullivan's helmet, trickling steadily over his face. Zeke did not find the sight very encouraging.

"Attention citizens of Raccoon City!" Sullivan shouted, his voice steady and firm as always despite the moisture running through his eyebrows and over his cheeks. "I order you to move away from my unit this instant! If you choose not to your actions will be considered hostile and you _will _be fired upon!"

The group of walking corpses came closer. Pathetic grunts and gurgles escaped their flaking lips.

"This is your final warning!" The captain cautioned the group. "Return to your homes now or I will give my men the order to fire."

They continued to close the gap. The mob was no more than five feet away. The stench of death and rot became even more pungent. Zeke felt the back of his throat lock up.

"Hostile enough for you yet, sir?" Cooper asked, his finger touching the trigger on his SAW.

_'He's hesitating.' _Zeke realized with horror, keeping the barrel of his weapon trained on the man in the windbreaker. _'Give the order, captain, give the damn order!' _As if reading the younger man's mind, Sullivan hollered at his troops.

"Weapons free!" The Southerner yelled. "Open fire, one burst across the front!"

There was short, steady crack of automatic fire, punctuated by the lower boom of a bolt-action rifle. The bullets tore across the crowd, knocking the residents around as holes suddenly erupted across their upper bodies. Then Sullivan gave the order to stop firing.

Zeke expected to see those in the front of the group stagger and hit the floor. He expected those behind them to scatter and run at the sound of gunfire or the sight of their fallen comrades. Zeke Wilcott did not get what he expected.

The entire crowd continued to press forward as one, save for the middle-aged fellow Sergeant Pierce had shot in the head, even those cut up by the initial spray. All marched towards the Rangers, arms outstretched and moaning a wet sound. Zeke's heart began to pick up, his mind telling him that this was impossible. No way, people did not keep walking after that. The soldiers looked on in surprise as the rotting residents drew nearer, their foul odor thick in the night air.

"No bloody way." Wesley muttered, his target had taken three rounds center mass and didn't seem to be feeling the hit.

"Captain!" Cooper shouted, no doubt thinking his eyes were playing tricks on him. "What do we do now, sir?"

Sullivan wished he knew. Nothing in his training or field experience had prepared him for situations like this. He had always been taught that when you shot someone they keeled over and didn't come looking for more. This group had just proved that knowledge inaccurate, sending the trusty captain for a loop. For once in his life, Curtis Sullivan was unable to make a decision.

_'Ah hell.' _Zeke thought, watching as uncertainty and doubt danced across his superiors face. The things were practically right on top of them now. "Suppressive fire!" He shouted, snapping the captain out of his daze, not wanting to have to make the decision himself but wanting to be torn to pieces by a ravenous horde of the undead even less. "Coop, hold the center group back with your 249, you five take the left side, we'll take the right! Pump everything you have into them, send them running people!"

Not hearing any better ideas from their captain the Rangers followed Zeke's advice. A moment later gunfire was the only sound to be heard. The acrid smell of gunpowder masking the odors of rotten flesh. The ring of shells hitting the pavement and the bark of automatic rifles drowning out the hungry wails of the creatures that besieged them.

Seconds later, the screaming started.

Rachel Parker was trapped, her body wedged between the smashed controls and her seat. The pilot shifted her weight, trying to squeeze out of the chair burning pain ran up her shin and stopped at her knee. Letting out a sharp gasp of anguish Rachel sagged back against the seat.

"Major Parker!" Sergeant Kirk Judges said, appearing in the window on her left.

"Kirk!" She called back, feeling some small degree of relief at the medic's arrival. "Get me out of here!"

"Hang on!" Judges replied, wrapping his hands around the mangled door handle. It didn't budge. "It's stuck! The crash must have jammed it."

The clatter of automatic fire pierced the quiet of the street. Both soldiers exchanged fearful expressions. This had not been part of the original plan. Rachel eased her head back and closer her eyes. In tense situations taking a moment just to breathe helped her stay calm and collected. The chopper's aft doors were open Kirk could get in that way.

"Kirk, I'm stuck in here. You'll have to come in around the side and..." Rachel opened her eyes and felt her breath catch in her chest. "Kirk, fuck, behind you!"

The medic whirled around one hand on gripping his assault rifle but it was too late. A man, his face ashen and body riddled with what looked like bullet holes, reeled toward Sergeant Judges and grabbed hold of his shoulders. With one rapid move of the neck, the man snapped his head forward and bit into Judges' throat. The medic let out a soft gurgle, his glazed eyes wide and disbelieving as the cannibal dragged him to the ground.

Rachel uttered a choking sob as Kirk fell out of sight. In front of her she could see what remained of her team fighting for their lives. Four other members of the squad lay on the ground, the creatures devouring their flesh and blood. Those that still remained continued to fire upon the citizens of Raccoon but barely holding them back. Rachel watched them grow closer around the body of the Black Hawk and drew her sidearm, a Colt M1911. She knew already that it was useless but had no better defense at the moment.

They had crash-landed in a necropolis, in a city of the dead where corpses walked the streets looking for fresh meat to satiate their endless hunger. It was here, in this nightmarish place that seemed too terrible to be real, that they would die. Die and join the monsters they now battled.

Of this, Major Rachel Parker was certain.

It was easiest for Ryan Pierce. As a sniper he had been taught to make every shot count. What that boiled down to was one shot, one kill. That always meant you aimed for, and hit, your target in the head because no one was much of a threat after a 7mm Remington magnum bullet tore through their skull.

He and the other five survivors continued to back up as the creatures pressed in closer. Ryan took careful at the nearest through the optical sight of his rifle. The sniper kept his breathing slow, hands steady and the stock tight against his shoulder before centering the crosshairs on the creature's peeling face. Slowly squeezing the trigger, his rifle announced its report, coughed fire, and his target's head blew apart like a can of tomato soup. That brought his kill count to four.

"Hey," he shouted to the Ranger beside him, "you seeing a pattern developing here?"

"Yeah!" Joe Cooper said, yelling to be heard above the chatter of his SAW. The large rounds tore across the line of citizens in front of them and knocked the cannibals to the asphalt. Some stayed down but many more continued forward, crawling on hands and knees towards the soldiers. "Just hold them back! We need to buy the boss some time to think."

"That's the bloody ironic thing," Wesley commented, sliding a new magazine into his rifle. "We need the one thing we don't have."

"Grenades!" Zeke ordered as the surviving Rangers bumped up against the nose of the Black Hawk.

Each man stopped firing and reached into his belt pouch. They removed one of the three anti-personnel grenades they had been issued before take off. It took only two seconds to remove the pins and lob the explosives into the midst of the undead horde. Five seconds after that the ground shook and a column of fire sent the darkness into retreat. The blast sent blood and body parts raining down from all directions. The front lines of the cannibals were knocked to the ground by the concussion as the explosion went off behind them.

The unit – what was left of it – raced around to the side of the chopper only to be cut off by another platoon of the ravenous flesh-eaters. They extended their arms and drew closer, the bloodthirsty abominations no more than five feet away now. Behind them was nothing but open road. Nothing but safety.

"Again!" Sullivan bellow, yanking a grenade from his pouch. His five subordinates did the same, rolling the grenades into the closing mob of ashen-faced monsters.

"Now hold them back!" Lieutenant Wilcott yelled, opening up on the cannibals with his M-4. Soon the others joined him and all that could be heard above the din of automatic fire was the determined moans of the Raccoon civilians. The zombies.

The force of the collective gunfire kept the cannibals in place. Unable to press thought the torrent of molten lead they had nowhere to go when the grenades went off. The explosion ripped the monsters apart, taking off arms, legs and even tearing some in half. The path ahead was clear – spattered with bits of gore but clear all the same.

Zeke felt the heat of the blast, the shockwave knocking him up against the pilot side of the helicopter. He grimaced in disgust as stale blood and gust spattered across his uniform. Behind the lieutenant, whose adrenaline levels were at an all time high, someone was calling his name.

"Zeke!"

"Rachel!" The lieutenant cried in response, seeing the terrified pilot beating her hands against the bullet proof glass. He tried the door but it was jammed. Only then did he notice the body of Kirk Judges laying on his back, starring up at the sky with unseeing eyes. His throat had been wrenched out and much of his right arm had been mangled. "Oh fuck. None of this was supposed to happen. None!"

"Zeke!" Rachel screamed again, snapping him back to reality. "The door's stuck and my leg is broken. I need your help."

"I'm coming!" He replied, looking the frightened woman in the eye. "Just hold on!"

Slinging the rifle around his neck, Lieutenant Wilcott raced around the side of the crippled Black Hawk to the open aft door. He had just enough time to notice the cannibals who had been knocked off balance by the grenades were starting to recover and then he was in the chopper's cabin.

Zeke charged up to the pilot's seat, well aware that the things outside were pressing in on both sides of the helicopter. Rachel turned her head to look at the lieutenant and opened her mouth to say something. Her words were muted by the sounds of gunfire from outside.

"I'm getting you out of here." Zeke told the pilot plainly, surveying the leg that had been crushed between the control panel and her seat. Wrapping his arms around her waist, Zeke pulled Rachel up hard. She screamed, sending a wave of guilt through the Ranger for having to cause her further pain but they didn't have time for him to do this gracefully. With a final tug, and scream from Rachel, the lieutenant managed to slide her body up and squeeze her mangled leg out from the control consol. Blood had soaked through her pant leg, he would need Kirk's medical kit to patch up the wound.

"Ah shit!" Rachel groaned as Zeke slung her arm around his shoulders. "Did you have to try and rip my leg off?"

"Sorry," he replied sincerely, "you can kick my butt around all you like after we get out of here."

Zeke dragged her back out of the chopper the way he had come in. As soon as their feet touched the road the cannibalistic residents of Raccoon began to filter in through the opposite door of the chopper. Rachel had her pistol out and fired into the skull of the closest. Two holes erupted above the man's eyebrow and his body clattered to the metallic floor of the chopper's cabin. Zeke helped her limp away and felt a strong hand close around his shoulder.

"Come on, son!" Sullivan hollered, his uniform caked in gore.

"Rachel's hurt, sir!" Zeke said, ashamed of how panicked his voice sounded. "Her leg's busted. I'm going to need Kirk's medical kit."

"Stay calm, Wilcott." His superior ordered. Behind him Zeke saw Wes, Scott, Coop and Ryan running past the bed of charred bodies and up the open street. When they were a safe distance away the four stopped and turned to lay covering fire on the mob of creatures closing in on Zeke's left. "Grab the medical kit – Judges' won't be needing it. I'll handle things here." Sullivan fired into the group of cannibals coming through the chopper.

The panicked lieutenant and injured pilot hobbled over to the mutilated body of Kirk Judges. Zeke couldn't help but feel guilty for what he was about to do as he starred into his comrade's lifeless eyes. He still knew he had to do it though, they needed the medic's gear much more than he did.

Zeke rolled Kirk over and removed his backpack, which contained a variety of emergency medical supplies in addition to the standard Ranger gear. Zeke passed the pack up to Rachel who quickly donned it. Next, the lieutenant removed Kirk's holster and utility belt, which would help their ammunition last a little longer if they were forced to use their weapons again. Zeke had a feeling they would, just as he had a feeling that this was not going to be another routine mission.

"Captain!" Zeke cried. "Let's go!"

Sullivan turned his head. "Do you have it?"

"Yes! Now let's get the fuck out of this death trap!" Zeke screeched, his heart thumping in his ears so hard he thought going deaf might be only a step away.

"Captain!" It was Rachel who yelled this time. "Watch out!"

Curtis Sullivan realized, with no small degree of horror, his mistake. When he shifted his attention to check on Zeke and Rachel he lost focus. He let his guard down and now it was going to cost him.

He turned back just in time to see one of the walking nightmares come barreling towards him. Before he could pull the trigger on his rifle the cannibal, an emaciated image of the grave, batted the M-4 aside with such strength that the weapon jerked out of Sullivan's hands and clattered to the ground. The creature wrapped its fingers, gray and peeling, around Sullivan's chest. Acting quickly the captain pushed the monster back hard, sending the man reeling into the Black Hawk's chassis.

Another of the things lurched forward and Sullivan whirled to duck out of the way. Turning he planted a boot across the back of its head, the leather treads crushing the rotten cranium like a piece of fruit. The captain cried in surprise as a pair of pale arms draped across his shoulders. Grabbing the cannibal's thin wrists, which felt sickeningly cold and palpable to touch, Sullivan flipped the creature over and dispatched it in the same manner as the last.

So busy was he dealing with the attackers coming at him he failed to notice the one crawling across the pavement, reaching for his feet. The creature's lower body was gone, torn apart by the grenade blast but that had done nothing to deter the hunger that drove it. The only impulse the unfortunate soul still possessed.

The pathetic figured pulled himself towards the captain as he drove his elbow into the temple of another cannibal and sent it to the ground. The creature came closer and closer, so close that it could smell the warm flesh of Curtis Sullivan. The smell drove the living corpse into a frenzy, saliva running out the corners of its bloodstained mouth.

Zeke, Rachel and the others fired at the cannibal monsters coming through the chopper as Captain Sullivan shrugged one off after another but none noticed this figure. The crawler inched ever closer. Soon enough it was close enough to reach out and wrap its grimy fingers around Sullivan's boot. Close enough to pull its face forward. Close enough to bite deep into Sullivan's ankle and chew through muscle and tendon. Feeling the sweet taste of blood pouring down its throat in a vain attempt to satisfy a hunger that would never end, the creature was oblivious to the screams of agony coming from its victim.

There was the crack of a rifle and a round punched through the cannibal's head, ending what semblance of life it still retained. Captain Sullivan fell to the ground, still screaming. The smell of blood was in the air and the cannibal monsters that had once been Raccoon citizens felt that wonderful stench fill their nostrils. They pressed forward.

_'Pain is a thing of the mind.' _Captain Sullivan remembered the phrase from training as he looked down at the glistening white bone of his ankle poking out of a mess of shredded tendons and skin. _'It doesn't really hurt as much as I think it does. Focus on something else other than the wound. Think about something else and I won't even feel it at all. My leg is toast but I still have two working arms. That means I'm not through yet so focus on that. Focus on staying in the game."_

Trying to forget the knifing ache in his foot Sullivan kept his attention on the creatures coming through the body of the helicopter and drew his pistol. Not allowing the fiery sensation, an almost itchy feeling, in his leg to throw off his aim, the captain carefully drew a bead and sent a round through the brow of a portly man in a black t-shirt. Blood sprayed the metal walls of the chopper and the body hit the floor. The captain pulled the trigger three more times and three more of the cannibals hit the ground.

Those that still stood crawled and climbed over the bodies of their fellows, the stench of blood and gunpowder seeming to heighten their lust for human flesh. The sight of the creatures giving into reckless, mindless bloodlust chilled the captain to his very core. And nothing in the known world frightened Captain Curtis Sullivan.

Suddenly, Zeke and Rachel were standing beside him, pressing the cannibals back with their weapons. The lieutenant assessed the captain's wound with a cursory glance. It was nauseating to see bone sticking out like that and, judging by the surrounding damage, nerve endings must have been torn. Even if the foot was still functional walking would be torture for the sturdy captain.

"We're getting you out of here, sir." Zeke said, having to know it was probably impossible to fulfill that statement but not willing to leave a Ranger behind. Ranger's never left a man behind.

"Forget it." Sullivan winced, dropping another creature. "Get yourselves outta here now."

"We can' leave you here, captain." Rachel protested, slapping in a new clip. "No one deserves to die this way."

"I'm afraid you don't have a choice." Captain Sullivan said, setting his empty Colt down, his voice as calm and collected as always. "I can't walk."

"I'll drag you." Zeke replied.

"And support the girl at the same time?" Sullivan snapped and saw a pained look cross the lieutenant's face. "No way, Wilcott, you aren't Superman. Even if you could drag me I'd only slow you down and give these freaks a better chance of having all our asses for supper. Besides, don't worry about me, I'm going out of this game my own way."

The captain reached into his pouch and pulled out his last hand grenade. He pulled the pin and watched the ravenous mob approach.

Zeke hesitated. "Captain..."

"Are you deaf, boy?" Sullivan snarled, glaring at the younger soldier. "I'll bow you to kingdom come with me, Wilcott! Don't think I won't. Now get your butts out of here! Your in charge of the chalk now, son, get my boys home alive."

Zeke's face was somber and frustrated. He looked like he wanted to say more, to tell the captain he didn't care if they all got killed as long as it meant he had done his duty as a Ranger; to never leave a man behind. But part of Zeke Wilcott's duty was also following orders and Sullivan had ordered him to go. Ordered him to get everyone back safe. As much as it hurt, Zeke would not disgrace this great leader by ignoring his final wishes. Nodding to his superior, the lieutenant wrapped his arm around Rachel and the two started down the street towards the others.

Captain Sullivan watched them go, everything would be all right. His lieutenant was a good guy, had some problems when it came time to make a decision but in the end he would always do the right thing. Sullivan trusted him to handle the rest. There was no one else he would have trusted more.

The mass of cannibals came closer. Their dead faces flashed with eager anticipation. Withered hands reached for him. Diseased breath spilling out over yellow nubs of teeth. When they were less than a foot from him Captain Sullivan released his hold on the safety catch of the grenade.

"Dinner's served assholes." Sullivan whispered through his teeth.

He only had to wait a moment for the blast. Curtis Sullivan was sent from this world and he didn't need to worry about anything anymore. Zeke would handle the rest. He was sure of this.

Author's Note: Here you are Readers. I hope you enjoy and stay tuned for a new chapter to Come Clean soon.


	6. BONES

**Chapter 5: B.O.N.E.S.**

October 1, 1998

4:00 PM

White Umbrella Headquarters, New York

On paper the tall, nondescript concrete building in downtown Manhattan was a training facility for the New York branch of the FBI. This was only a half-truth.

The building was, indeed, a state of the art training facility but not for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. No, this institution was the training center and base of operations for the New York branch Bio-hazard Ordinance Neutralization and Elite Squad. It was the workplace of White Umbrella's most classified and deadly military personnel. The home of the corporation's own private army.

After passing through the glass front doors of the building one would enter into a plain looking gray lobby with a plain looking gray table in the center behind which a rather bland, plain looking security guard sat. All personnel entering the headquarters would have their photo ID's scanned by the guard before passing through a metal detector and heading towards the only other object of importance in the room: a plain looking stainless steel elevator.

Set beside the door of the elevator was a mechanical device that included a numerical keypad, as well as a palm and retinal scanner. Anyone wanting access to the elevator would have to pass all three of these security measures before the doors would slide open and admit them.

After passing through the scans the operative was free to roam the various floors of the headquarters. The facility was complete with revolutionary training grounds to better the skills of B.O.N.E.S. troopers. There were above ground classrooms where operatives were trained in ever aspect of fieldwork, from intelligence gathering to biochemistry. The institution was also complete with less interesting destinations such as administration offices and a cafeteria. The secrets all lay below ground.

In addition to the training grounds there was an armory – a cold room of fireproof metal – stocked with enough weapons to rival that of the American government. The Research and Development Lab was also located below ground, where even more advanced and deadly weapons were being researched. The locker rooms for all B.O.N.E.S. personnel were located beneath the streets of New York, so that Umbrella's soldiers could suit up in secret before rushing off to clean up whatever trouble had surfaced for the company. It was also on this subterranean level that the briefing room, or Classroom as it was known to the operatives who frequented it, was stationed.

The Classroom had received its name due to the fact that it bore a striking resemblance to a university lecture hall. It sported it's own chalkboard and uncomfortable seats all in rows of descending height, focusing in on a desk at that rested in the middle. Behind this desk sat the fat, balding form of White Umbrella's Director of Paramilitary Operations, Ronald Waters.

Ronald smoothed the folds in the Italian knock-off suit he had chosen to wear this day and watched as the five-man team strolled into the high-ceilinged room and took their seats. What he was about to tell them would make their chins fall to their ankles, he suspected. Nothing in the company's entire history compared to the incident, taking place in Raccoon City.

Sure they had not been without their share of accidents – a spill in the Paris lab, an information leak at the Chicago facility, another accidental release of the virus at a laboratory in London – but those had all been contained incidents. The problems there had been solved quickly and cleanly, leaving the Umbrella brass coming out sparkling white as always. The only thing that even came close to this disaster had been the affair at the Spencer Estate. And what a fiasco _that _had turned out to be. Jackson and the Inner Circle had severely underestimated the backlash that could bring in time.

_'If we didn't have Chief Irons in our pocket then every Umbrella man, including myself, would be wearing handcuffs and an orange jumpsuit now.' _Ronald thought darkly, standing up. _'Sad to say that pathetic sack of hot air actually saved our butts. I wonder how he's doing right now with his city collapsing all around him knowing there's nothing he can do to stop it. Probably run off and duck into one of his little hidey-holes in the station. He's one sick puppy if he does even half of what that psych report on him says he does.'_

Waters shook his head as the last man took his seat. There would be time to muse over those thoughts later. Brian Irons probably wasn't even dead yet, the carriers would have a hard time finding him in one of his foxholes but it was only a matter of time before one of the more advanced B.O.W's got to him or the chief wound up eating a bullet. Either way, Waters would be satisfied.

Ronald adjusted his tie once more and surveyed the group with beady blue eyes. It was Rico Da Silva's team, Beta Squad, they were supposed to be good. With what he was about to tell them, Director Waters certainly hoped that was true.

"Gentlemen," Waters began, looking at each stoney, scarred face, "as I'm sure you already know we have a situation. I am also quite certain you are all aware of the crisis gripping Raccoon City, after all, it's been on the news for weeks."

"So what's the deal chief?" Rico asked, his voice tinged with a Spanish accent, running his hand through short brown hair. "You know something we don't?"

"Yes, Major Da Silva, as a matter of fact I do." Waters cleared his throat uncomfortably here it was, time to tell Rico and his men all about Mission Impossible. "Gentlemen, it has come to my attention recently that the White Umbrella research laboratory located within Raccoon City has suffered an accident. There has been a spill, to be precise, and the disease afflicting the citizens of Raccoon _is _the T-virus."

"God in heaven." Sergeant Mick Murphy muttered in his Irish burr. "There must be a city full of carriers by now."

"Our computer projections show that a little under ninety-percent of the area's population is infected at this point." Waters reported, noting the shocked expressions on the faces of the B.O.N.E.S. members. "Within the next twelve hours those numbers are expected to jump to nearly ninety-five percent as law enforcement and emergency services begin to breakdown. Twelve hours after that we anticipate there won't be anyone left in Raccoon who is not infected."

"How the hell did this happen?" Rico asked, anger creeping into his voice. "I thought the security at the Raccoon facility was doubled after your guinea pigs at the Spencer Mansion got loose and started having the residents for dinner."

Again, Waters cleared his throat irritably. He really had known all along that he would have to answer this question and had been dreading doing so all day. Not only would he have to explain to these men that their employers were responsible for the outbreak, but it had been caused by B.O.N.E.S. operatives themselves.

"As you may be aware, Doctor William Birkin and his wife Annette were in charge of running the administration at the Raccoon facility." Waters began. "They had been developing a variation of the original viral strain which they had code named the 'God Virus' or, more simply, the G-virus. When asked to deliver a sample of this strain to White Umbrella officials to be reviewed and inspected, William and his wife refused to do so. Further requests for delivery of the sample were refused and shortly thereafter more direct action was ordered to be taken against the doctors."

"What kind of action?" Sergeant Boris Petrovsky asked, looking sour-faced as usual.

"Military action." Waters said plainly and saw several of the troopers raise an eyebrow or furrow a brow. "Two B.O.N.E.S. units, lead by Major James Cooper, were sent in and authorized to use any means necessary to obtain a sample case. Before losing radio contact with Major Cooper, he reported that William Birkin had resisted and forced one of his men to use deadly force. They had retrieved the case with all ten samples of both the T and G strains intact. Doctor Birkin was critically wounded and thought to be dead.

"Thought to be?" Rico interjected, emerald eyes flickering suspiciously.

"Yes, you see, after retrieving the case Major Cooper's team was to meet up with Major Boggs' team in the Raccoon sewers and report to the pick-up zone." Waters replied, turning his gaze to Rico. "This did not happen as planned. Cooper's next radio transmission was sketchy but he reported that the rest of his squad was dead. Some – _thing _– had followed them out of the lab. Something that reportedly bore a striking resemblance to Doctor Birkin."

"The doctor _mutated_?" Heavy weapons sergeant, Sven Diechter sounded incredulous. "You aren't suggesting that he injected himself, are you? What person in their right mind would do _that_?"

"Once you read the mission profile, Sergeant Diechter, you will learn that Doctor William Birkin was certainly not within his right mind." Said Waters. "Birkin slept maybe four hours every two days and, according to his psych evaluation, had one hell of a God complex. His whole life revolved around this project of his.

It is believed that after being fatally wounded by Cooper's man Doctor Birkin used the G-virus on himself hoping its ability to regenerate dead cells would save his life. He must have known we would be sending in a B.O.N.E.S. team and kept another sample in secret. Unfortunately the G-virus proved to be even more unstable than its predecessor and the good doctor turned into…something else."

"Something that slaughtered several well-trained and well-armed men." Said Sergeant Rodney Foller. His accent was distinctly Austrailian. "What exactly were the married couple working on down there?"

"We don't know for sure." The director shook his head sadly. His job always left him with more questions than answers. Questions that it would be unwise to give voice too but he couldn't even begin to imagine what it must be like for these men. They would be the ones facing off against the things he could not explain. "We have been unable to get our hands on a copy of the G strain or any of the research notes made by William or his wife."

"I thought you said Cooper obtained an entire case of samples?" The Latino said.

"Yes, he did get the sample case," Waters nodded, "but Cooper reported that during the attack he was forced to either lose the samples or lose his life. He chose the case. We now believe that after Major Cooper ditched the case it was damaged and the samples it contained were released. From there it spread to the citizens of Raccoon City via sewer workers who were infected by rats that had consumed the virus. The outbreak has grown considerably out of hand since then."

"What happened to Major Cooper?" Rico asked, he may have been a mercenary at heart – most members of B.O.N.E.S. were – but he was still a soldier and sahred a bond with those like him.

"We lost contact with him two days ago, he was trying to reach the Umbrella research station in the Arklay Mountains. We assume that he was killed on his way." Director Waters said and Rico nodded, apparently not surprised.

"So where do my guys come in?" Da Silva asked, apparently not deciding to dwell on the possible circumstances of his comrade's death. Knowing some of the things Umbrella cooked up it probably was not all that pleasant. "This going to be a standard clean-up gig? Go in, take out anyone left who knows anything, grab the good doctor's files and burn the lab down?"

A look of surprise flashed across the B.O.N.E.S' leader's face when Waters shook his bald head, "No, the security measures around and within the lab are still in place so we don't believe it to be directly threatened. Besides, that place was the focal point of the outbreak and no doubt a hot zone for the disease and its carriers." Waters paused a moment. "However, it is imperative that we do obtain a copy of Doctor Birkin's research."

"How?" Mick asked quickly. "Everything would be at the Raccoon lab."

"Not quite." Waters countered. "There is still one other copy of the information out there. The Arklay Mountains Research Station should have something on file. All research for ongoing projects has to be sent there to be reviewed by Umbrella officials before they would take an interest in a project and give it funding. If William wanted to keep the money rolling in for his pet project he would need to send progress reports regularly to the research station."

"Then why not just have those guys send you the files?" Rico asked and Waters was forced to sympathize with the younger man. A lot of this must have seemed unnecessarily complicated to him.

"The research station went offline shortly after the time of the initial outbreak." Waters informed the B.O.N.E.S crew. "We haven't heard a word from them in two weeks."

"So, we get into the AMRS, find out what happened to the poor bastards there, grab the files you need and make it back home in time for Letterman right?" Rico asked, summing up his teams objectives in a round about way.

"Sadly, no." waters opened his desk drawer and removed five manila folders stuffed with papers. The word '_CLASSIFIED'_ had been stamped across the front below the white and red shield that served as the Umbrella insignia. Waters passed out a folder to each man. "Your squad will have one other goal to complete, Major Da Silva."

Director Waters paused and gave the team members a few minutes to flip through and scan the material contained in the folders. Of course, he already knew what was in the files. When his superiors had given him a copy to look over he had thought it made for an interesting read indeed.

Contained within the briefing package was a compilation of news articles from papers in Raccoon about the outbreak and the growing civil unrest as a result of it. There were also several documents written by Umbrella researchers about how the virus spread and the inner workings of the disease. Unfortunately, the better part of the report was typed in a language that only a biochemist had any hope of understanding but Waters knew the team would get the gist of it: do not get any infected tissue in open mounds or mucous membranes.

Next would be the photos of what human carriers looked like as well as the bio-organic weapons engineered in the Raccoon facility. Among these were the Re3, nicknamed the "Licker" among the lab technicians for the creature's monstrously long tongues. While the Re3's were highly lethal, with their seemingly boneless way of moving and claws that could rend sheet metal, getting past four of the mutants was a cakewalk compared to dealing with even one of the Hunter Gamma or Beta series. These had been part of a rather successful experiment in the bowels of Saint Michael's Hospital. It was a pity, Waters thought, that by the end of the next night they would all be wiped out.

The next page in the section on the B.O.W's would be the real eye-opener. The Director of Paramilitary Operations felt a pang of guilt as he saw the expressions of the shock and terror on the faces of Da Silva's men as they reached the last photo and attached file. Even he could hardly believe the company had been twisted enough to create an aberration like the one in the handout.

The photo was of a giant. The creature stood at least eight feet tall, its skin a rusty brown and heavily muscled. The giant's chest was bare, revealing thick veins and criss-crossing slashes of scar tissue, but around its waist – nearly reaching to its ankles – hung a leather kilt. The giant's face was the worst part. Glowing yellow orbs rested in deep, sunken sockets high above a mouth filled with rows of bone-white razors. The mouth was all wrong though as it seemed to be able to unhinge its jaw, lowering its chin to the top of its scarred chest. To top it all off five sets of seven-inch claws hung from the hands of two tree-trunk arms. Appropriately enough the codename on the giant's file named it as the Devourer.

"My God." Mick muttered, the page trembling in his hand as he raised it for closer examination, almost as if not believing it was really on the page directly in front of his face.

"The logical part of my brain is telling me that thing can't exist," Rico commented, seeming unusually cool, "but the part that works for this company is telling the logical side it should know better."

"Yes." Was all Ronald Waters could bring himself to say as the B.O.N.E.S. team continued to go through the file.

He hated being a suit so much. It meant that he got to sit in a comfortable chair behind a desk and tell able-bodied men that it was their job to go out and put their lives on the line for an organization that would deny their existence should they ever be killed or captured. At least when he had been a captain in the Marines he had been on the battlefield with the men he sent out to fight. Now it was his duty to pass those dangers along to someone else.

Rico and his men had reached the last page. Waters knew by heart that it was a map of Saint Jude's Hospital in Raccoon City. Unlike most blueprints for Saint Jude's this map included plans of the sub-basement as well as instructions on how to access the White Umbrella lab hidden in its depths.

"Another secret lab?" Said Rodney Foller. "Bloody fuck, Umbrella has its hands into everything in this city."

"Care to tell us boy scouts what we're going to be doing at Saint Jude's, scoutmaster?" Rico quipped, giving Waters a sardonic smile.

"A standard retrieval mission, Major Da Silva." The director answered as the troopers went over the handouts once more, committing the information to memory. "The sub-basement of the hospital is actually a top secret laboratory used by Umbrella scientific personnel posing as medical doctors. They were doing work on an experimental variation of the T-virus. IT was reported to be a success and quite a breakthrough at that but has only been tested once and the researchers wanted more time to work out the kinks. Unfortunately the outbreak has thrown a ratchet into things and we have no idea what shape the lab is in now. Your orders are to find the case containing samples of the T-variant and then destroy everything else in the facility."

"Where is the sample located?"

"There's a freezer in the lab containing all viral materials. You should find the sample case there unless the chemists took it upon themselves to hide it elsewhere." Waters said this and saw Rico frown he too knew that this may be a possibility. Umbrella scientists all seemed to love cloak and dagger and if they had hidden the sample case it would make the mission that much more difficult.

"What about survivors, sir?" Mick asked, raising his hand.

"If you come across any Umbrella researchers that are injured but not infected your orders are to bring them back safe and sound. Otherwise," Waters paused, he didn't like this part of his job too much but as a former soldier he knew such measures could be necessary to the completion of a mission. "There are to be no survivors. Do you understand, sergeant?"

Mick Murphy only nodded. Clearly, as a medic, he was not used to being given the command to murder before.

"There is something else you should know, Major Da Silva." Waters said, starring intently at the B.O.N.E.S. leader.

"And that is?"

"A mission supervisor is being sent along with your squad to evaluate your performance."

"The hell?" Rico snapped indignantly. "I was just evaluated last month."

"Yes," Waters agreed calmly, "as a part of a simulation exercise. This time you are being graded on your ability to command your squad in a highly volatile and lethal setting. A very real setting."

"May I ask who my supervisor will be?"

Waters told Rico, whose eyes grew wide as he let out a low whistle.

"You're kidding?" The major was incredulous. "I thought he was dead."

"He's not." Waters said dismissively, waving a hand. "And we aren't paying you to think, major."

"Yes, sir." Rico gave a mock salute.

"Any questions?" Director Waters looked at the gruff, unshaven, scarred faces of the B.O.N.E.S. members and saw only one hand shoot up. He was not at all surprised to see that it was attached to the arm of Rico Da Silva. "Yes, major?"

Rico lowered his hand, an eager grin splitting his face. "When can me and my boy scouts here get to work?"

Now it was Rico's turn to not be the least bit surprised. The answer, of course, was immediately.

-------------------------------------Page Break--------------------------------------

Within ten minutes they were locked, loaded and airborne aboard the C-141 helicopter. Each B.O.N.E.S. trooper had been issued the standard weaponry: a black-finished AK-47, Colt M1911 handgun, two clips of spare ammunition and a pair of anti-personnel grenades. Sven Dietcher who, as heavy weapons specialist, favoured the M-60 over the AK.

In addition to their weapons each man carried a pack with emergency rations, headset radios, flares and a gas mask. Petrovsky's also held a large charge of C-4 plastic explosive and a remote detonator. Mick carried a field surgery and first-aid kit with the rest of his equipment. The team members were draped in the black flak jackets and cargo pants that served as their uniform. There was no symbol on any of their gear lest it be traced back to Umbrella.

Rico sat on a bench as the chopper cut through the cold night, watching his men check their gear and noticing how upset Mick Murphy looked. Probably still displeased about their orders to kill any survivors. Should anyone have been so lucky as to still be alive by the time they arrived anyways.

'_Well,'_ Rico thought quietly as the helicopter tore through the sky, _'that's understandable I suppose. The IRA never really shed any tears about killing soldiers but civilians were a different matter. Probably has something to do with Mick being a medic too, surgeons always trying to save lives rather than take them. Sentimental bullshit, true, but I can still understand how he feels.' _

Rico always held the belief that if a leader wanted a mission to be successful then he had to know everything there was to know about his teammates. That always meant knowing every detail about their pasts.

Mick had graduated with honors from university and went in to do his time at a medical school of some repute in Dublin. It was during this time he took up the cause of the Irish Republican Army against the British occupation. However, Mick had left the group after the IRA had abandoned any hope of political change for outright fanaticism, becoming too ideological and far less profitable. Regarding the medic's current demeanor, Rico thought that perhaps some IRA ideals died harder than others.

Sergeant Diechter, Petrovsky and Foller were all military men, which made Rico feel a slight bit weird that he had been appointed as squad commander. As a former Basque rebel, he thought surely one of the others would have been given the job but such was not the case. Just his luck.

Sven Diechter, built like a tank and cold as ice, had once been a member of the elite GSG-9 unit in his home country. Petrovsky was the oldest, most experienced member of the team, and had served several tours in the Red Army fighting in Afghanistan before being recruited by White Umbrella. Rodney Foller had served time in the Royal Western Austrailian Regiment back home and could fly a chopper if need be.

As diverse as their backgrounds might have been their motivations – like Rico's – for joining up with Umbrella were all the same. Money. If one thing could be said about their employers was that they paid well. Very well.

Rico and Mick had deserted the Basque and IRA factions as the groups began to become insanely ideological. Ideologists wound up dead or in jail but not rich as far as either man was concerned. With the poor state of economies in Germany and Russia, Sven and Boris jumped at the fat cheques offered to them by the Umbrella recruiters. Sergeant Foller was no exception, as he made nearly three times as much now than he had when he was a member of Her Majesty's Royal Western Regiment.

_'Then,'_ Rico thought looking across the bench at the man who was to be his supervisor for this operation, _'there is you my friend.'_

Rico's supervisor sat hunched over, his elbows resting on his knees seemingly starring off into space. His face was hidden behind the red goggles and black plastic of a gas mask, just like each of the other B.O.N.E.S. soldiers. He wore the same uniform and carried the same equipment as the other troopers. To the naked eye he blended right in with the rest of the unit but, to Rico's eye, he stuck out like a businessman in lower Harlem.

Major Da Silva knew his supervisor well, he had been responsible for most of his training after joining B.O.N.E.S. and ever since their first meeting eight years ago there had been something amiss about the man. Rico couldn't place his finger on what exactly but knew he always got the same uneasy vibe whenever this man was around. Rico did not like to think of himself as being superstitious but at the same time he _knew _there was something wrong with his supervisor. There was an invisible mist that obscured his emotions and intentions. The same mist was evident in his cold, smoky voice and it always made the B.O.N.E.S commander uneasy when he had to listen to his mentor speak.

During his training Rico had only asked questions that he felt would be absolutely crucial to his survival and success in the field, so that he would be able to obtain the necessary information without having to listen to that foggy, eerie tone any longer than was necessary. Now, even though he was regretting it already, Rico knew he had to ask his supervisor something. It might not be important to the mission but it was important to the major.

"So, what should I call you while we run this little errand together?" Rico asked and watched the supervisor's head slowly swivel his way.

"Sir." Came the answer, as cold and blunt as Rico had expected it to sound.

"Sir?" Rico said, shifting in his seat, the man's voice was just as haunting and unnerving as it had been eight years ago. "Come on, we go way back, can't we get a little more personal than that?"

The supervisor shrugged. "Call me…Smith."

"That's a little cliché," Rico laughed nervously, "but alright. Mind enlightening me as to why the upper echelons of the company saw fit to send along a man of your caliber to evaluate a grunt like me after my boy scouts and I were already evaluated last month?"

"That's really none of your concern major," Smith began but then his hard, robotic voice lightened, "but alright. If you must know, White Umbrella has never had to handle an operation on this kind of scale before. Sure, there have been a few small spills at some of our more isolated, out of the way, locations that were cleaned up nicely by B.O.N.E.S. and U.B.C.S. personnel, but never has an entire city been exposed to the virus before. The company won't be able to sweep this fiasco under the rug so easily."

"That still doesn't explain why you're here…sir." Rico cut in, his tone deathly serious. Smith nodded.

"Blatantly put, major, I'm here to make sure you don't fuck this up." Smith replied, his tone ice once again and hard as stone. "If at anytime I come to believe that your ability to lead has come into question I have orders to take command of this mission and ensure that it is completed without incident."

Rico felt his men stiffen beside him as they took in this new information, though none of them said a word. What Smith had said still did not surprise Rico as much as he thought it might have. He had suspected that more was going on than a simple evaluation of whether he was doing an acceptable job or not. Still, he did not feel at all comfortable with the thought that Smith could usurp him at anytime, put a bullet in the back of his head and continue on his merry little way. In fact, it made the major quite angry that the corporation did not trust him enough to do their dirty work and had to send along a babysitter to make sure he did not slip up. Especially when he thought that babysitter was dead and buried for five months now.

"So they sent a long a zombie like yourself to hold my hand huh?" The disdain in Rico's tone was clear and he knew he was toeing a dangerous line but at the same time didn't care. Rico didn't like any of the two-faced, double-dealing bullshit he had to put up with and, at that moment, did not particularly care if Smith knew it. "I find that sweetly ironic…sir."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you are talking about, major." Smith said plainly and Rico could hear the irritation behind his words.

"Don't play the fool, sir, it doesn't suit you well." Rico said, leaning forward and, once again, he could feel the tension radiating off his men. They had not been expecting anything like this to happen. "I heard that you died on an operation months ago. It was all anyone could talk about for awhile. You can't possibly be who Waters said you are."

"Believe half of what you see and none of what you hear, Major Da Silva." Smith said. "Anything is possible."

This time it wasn't Smith's tone of voice that made Rico's skin crawl but his words. From his experience with the man, the major had never come to think of his supervisor as a cryptic man. Rico knew that Smith was a blunt, straightforward type of person and not one accustomed to using metaphors or speaking in circles. This scared Rico. The haunting voice was the same but the words it spoke had clearly changed.

Maybe he was paranoid, maybe he was jumping to conclusions but somehow Rico _knew _that this man was not the same one he had met all those years ago. Something him, something subtle, had changed and Rico had learned that the subtle things were often what meant the difference between success and failure. Life and death.

_'I'm going to keep my eye on you.' _Rico thought as the pilot announced it would be only another minute before they reached their target. The major made a mental note to keep a round chambered in his pistol, just in case Smith decided to try anything crafty. If it came down to that Rico could always explain things to Waters later. He was good at working in a pinch.


	7. Man Down

**Chapter 6: Man Down**

October 1, 1998

7:00 PM

The Lucky Clover Motel

Gun fire still ringing in his ears, Shank made it to the parking lot just in time to see Shots roll behind a compact Toyota. Twisting his head to the right Shank saw what it was his friend was rolling away from. Two pick-up trucks, one black and one red, had entered the motel's parking lot carrying three men in each in their truck beds dressed in casual clothing with bandannas or handkerchiefs tied about their mouths. The pick-up beds were also stacked with everything from toolboxes to Sony televisions. The men themselves, looking a great deal like Mexican banditos with the bandannas obscuring their faces, were armed with a variety of handguns that they discharged liberally at the Shots, riddling the car he hid behind with bullet holes.

"Get the bikes!" Shank heard the driver of the black pick-up yell to his comrades.

"The fuck you do!" Blaze shouted as two men from each pick-up dropped down from the truck beds and raced across the lot to where the Psycho's motorcycles rested, seemingly oblivious to the five new bikers on the scene. "Get 'em!"

"Hey!" Shank bellowed as he ran across the parking lot to intercept the four men, his companions right behind. Raising the hefty revolver the big man took a moment to aim, pull back the hammer and let a round fly. He was no marksman, the few gunfights the biker had the misfortune of being in were all gang confrontations and those usually gave one little time to carefully draw a bead. There was no strategy involved in that conflict where the combatants simply tried to fire off as many rounds as possible and hope for the best before running away. Needless to say, Shank and his comrades had never been given much time to develop their skill at gunplay.

Shank was annoyed, but not surprised, to see his shot miss, sailing wide over one man's head. The banditos – they truly did look like something out of the Old West – noticed the Psychos now. They stopped, spun and opened fire, sending a hail of bullets at the five bearded men. The bikers ducked, throwing themselves to the pavement, scrapping hands and elbows in the process.

The four thieves, having rid themselves of the interference from the bikers for the moment, continued there dash to the Harley's when a deafening boom split the night air. Shots emptied both barrels of his shotgun into the legs of one bandit as he ran past, ripping apart flesh and bone. The man cried out as his kneecaps seemed to vanish in a spray of crimson and he staggered to the ground, his pistol jumping from his grasp. One of the thieves saw his partner drop and turned his weapon on the prone biker reloading behind the Toyota but Blaze was back on his feet and firing. Three red holes erupted in the man's back and he fall in a heap.

Seeing two of their number done away with, the remaining pair of thieves hesitated then turned and ran madly back to the safety of their getaway vehicles. Boomer and Slugger opened fire on the same target, their rounds catching the bandit in the side and dropping him to the ground in a heap. The men still in the trucks returned fire, but proved to be rather poor shots, giving the bikers enough time to scamper out of the way once more.

"Come on! Come on!" One man still in the truck bed called to his retreating friend. The fellow offered his hand and began to pull his partner in crime back into the truck when a round from Shank's King Cobra tore through his eye and dropped him lifelessly over the edge of the truck bed.

"Ah, crap." Shank muttered into his beard as he saw the man in the red pick-up reach down and grab what looked like a bottle of vodka. Shank could see a wet rag dangling lazily from the bottle's opening. The bandit pulled out a Zippo from his pocket and set the oily piece of cloth aflame. "Shots, get out of there now!"

Shank saw his friend's head pick up at the mention of his name. Shots glanced once at the man in the truck before taking off, leaping through the air as the Molotov cocktail set the area he had just been crouching in on fire. The flames rose high, licking up the sides of the compact, consuming the Toyota's wheels.

"Run!" Tech bellowed in that gritty, screeching voice of his, firing his Glock wildly at the man in the red pick-up, missing him but forcing the thief to duck.

"Better listen to the kid, buddy!" Boomer shouted to Shots above the thunder of gunfire. He pumped five rounds through the passenger side door of the red truck and saw the driver's silhouette jerk to one side then sag against the steering wheel.

A flash of movement from the black truck caught Shank's attention. He saw that the thief had climbed back into the truck bed and had also armed himself with a Molotov. The big man raised his revolver as the man lit the fuse and wound up to throw. His thumb pulled the hammer back and Shank squeezed the trigger three times. Two bloody holes broke out across the man's chest but it was too late, his arm was already moving forward and the deadly cocktail of oil and fire was sailing through the air.

"The bikes!" Slugger shouted in alarm as the Molotov's trajectory carried it on a downward slope towards where the Harley's were parked. There was the sound of breaking glass and then a sweltering eruption of orange flame that blanketed the six motorcycles. Hot tongues of fire devoured the metal chassis, ate through the rubber tires, and turned wires to liquid.

"The gas tanks," Blaze murmured, then his voice rose and his eyes went wide with panic. "Get down!"

The explosion that followed made this order unnecessary as the concussion pushed all six men to the floor. Shank hit the ground hard he could feel the heat against his skin and hear chunks of rubber and scrap metal flying past his face. Breath rushed out of the big man and he began to cough and splutter. Unsteadily, his legs feeling made of water, the biker attempted to rise, only to be knocked to the ground again by another earth shaking blast as the Toyota's gas tank ignited, turning it into a ball of burning wreckage.

Lying with his back against the hard pavement Shank felt his senses begin to shut down. He could not hear anything, aside from a study, droning hum in his ears. He was unable to see anything but bright bursts of color that zipped painfully across the backs of his eyes. He was unable to feel anything except for a somewhat hot sensation in his left forearm. For a brief moment, Shank thought he was going to die out there in the parking lot of that roach motel.

Just as this notion hit the big man he felt air return to his lungs and suddenly he could breathe again. Slowly the fog cleared from his brain and the humming in his ears ceased. It was replaced by the sounds of gunshots, shouting voices, licking flames and squealing tires. The flashes of color behind Shank's eyes disappeared and were replaced by a solid darkness. At first Shank thought the explosions had blinded him then realized, much to his own embarrassment, that he had his eyes closed. He opened them and Shots' face came into view, a look of concern etched across his weathered features.

"You alright, dog?" He asked and Shank looked down at his arm where he could feel a warm, prickly sensation crawling up his forearm – then quickly turned his head away once more when he caught sight of the five smoldering shards of metal embedded in the skin.

"Ah, geez!" He groaned, rolling to one side. "Yeah, yeah. I'm all right. What happened to our buddies in the trucks?"

"Don't worry about them," Shots said, a wry smile splitting his grizzly face. "The guy driving the black pick-up bugged out after he saw the last of his last of his crew get greased by our fearless leader."

"Glad to hear it." Shank groaned again, then heard someone to his right do the same.

"Shots get over here!" Blaze ordered and the former surgeon moved from Shank to where Boomer lay sprawled across the pavement.

The entire right side of Boomer's upper body was in the same condition as Shank's arm. Smoking pieces of metal poked out of his skin; blood covered his arm and rib cage. Boomer's eyes rolled around in a daze as he flopped from side to side until Shots pinned his shoulders down to keep the man still.

"Shit." Shots said as he looked over the other man's injuries then glanced up at Blaze whose face was set with lines of anxiety. "He's hurt bad."

"Yeah? Could you put that in a memo and title it _'Shit I Already Know'_?" The Psycho's leader snapped. "Tell me something I don't know, Shots."

Shank rose to his feet and dusted himself off with one hand. He looked at the condition of his left arm and winced, holding the injured appendage tight against his chest. Turning his head, Shank saw Tech and Slugger hurry back over from the spot where the Harley's continued to bake.

"Well the bikes are fucking toast." Tech commented bitterly, a scowl written across his weasely face.

"Literally." Slugger added ruefully. "Everything we had with us just went up in smoke."

"We've got bigger problems right now boys." Shank thrust a thumb in Boomer's direction and then limped over to where he lay. Tech and Slugger followed silently.

"Damn it, man." Slugger said, shaking his head fists clenched at his sides as he surveyed his friend writhing on the ground.

Shots did his best to hold his patient still but Boomer twitched and spasmed like a fish out of water. Laying a knee across one of his shoulders Shots used two calloused fingers to feel the man's neck for a pulse. "Hey! Lay still man. It's all right. You're gonna be okay."

"Bull…shit." Boomer moaned, holding his side.

"Relax, Boomer." Blaze said in a voice softer than he looked capable of using. "We're gonna take care of you. Just lay back and let Shots do his job."

"Shank?" Shots said, looking up.

"Yeah, man?"

"Go get me the bed sheets from the motel room, I can use them to make some makeshift bandages. They won't be great but they'll have to do until we can get Boomer to a hospital." Shots replied and Shank took off into the room before his friend was done speaking.

"That may prove to be more difficult than it sounds." Slugger murmured, taking a look around at the city that chaos had swallowed.

A second later Shank dashed back out into the parking lot, a pair of white bed sheets bundled under one thick, grimy arm. He handed the sheets down to Shots who tore the fabric into strips and carefully wrapped them around Boomer's injuries.

"Try not to bite your tongue off, bro." Shots said, sympathy in his brown eyes, "this is going to hurt a bit."

"Just…do it." Boomer grunted. Shots pulled the sheets tight and knotted them. Boomer screamed, a high, whining din that made Shank grimace. "Ahh! Fuck…you, Shots."

"Yeah, I know." Shots smiled, then handed one of the strips up to Shank. "Tie your arm with this, make sure you pull it tight."

Shank took the strip of cloth and nodded grimly as he wrapped the sheet around his arm. He gasped sharply as he pulled the crude bandage tight and tied it off. Together, Shank and Shots helped Boomer climb to his feet.

"We've got to get him to a hospital." Shots told the others. "The bandages will stop the bleeding for now but I can't tell if any internal damage has been done. We need to get him some professional help."

"I thought you were a professional?" Slugger commented, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, I _was._" Shots snapped back, adjusting his grip to better support Boomer's considerable bulk.

"How are we even supposed to _get _to a fucking hospital?" Tech said, a note of panic in his voice. "Our wheels just got turned into rubber and chrome soup!"

"Calm down, kid." Blaze said looking around the Lucky Clover's parking lot slowly. His eyes fell across the bullet riddle red pick-up truck. 'We can take the truck. Some of us will have to ride in the back but I don't think anyone will mind too much. Will they?" The rest of the biker clan shook their heads. "Good. Let's hurry it up then."

The group reached the truck and quickly emptied it of the stolen loot as well as the body of one unfortunate bandit then, carefully and gently lowered Boomer into the bed of the truck. Blaze raced around to the driver's side and hauled the door open. He dragged the driver's body out and stuffed his pistol, a Glock 19, into his waistband before climbing behind the steering wheel. Shots jumped in on the passenger side as Shank, Tech and Slugger hopped into the back with Boomer.

"You boys all set back there?" Blaze called into the back, pulling aside the small window that separated the truck cab from the truck bed.

"Get this heap moving!" Shank said with a thumbs-up for good measure.

"Alright, where's the closest hospital?" Blaze asked, shifting the pick-up into gear.

"Saint Jude's," Shots replied, "take Borne all the way up until you reach Royce, then turn onto Mill, it's on the opposite side of Maple Street."

"Got it." Blaze put his foot down on the pedal.

In the back of the truck Shank felt a few raindrops sprinkle down across his shoulders, a moment later it was pouring down without relent. Overhead a lightning bolt tore across the dark sky. Water dripped down through his thick beard and over his eyes.

"This…sucks." Boomer muttered from where he lay.

"What next?" Tech sighed.

Shank wondered the same thing as the pick-up rolled down the street. The pain in his arm was distracting so he did not register the noise at first, then, abruptly his head shot up as a deep, rumbling bellow, like the roar of a lion, filled his ears. Another lightning bolt split through the clouds and Shank shook his head, smirking. He must have been getting old, he thought. He was starting to hear things.

Author's Note: Here's another update for you, my Readers. A short chapter and not one of my best but I hope you enjoy. Stay tuned for more updates here as well as for Come Clean soon. I would also like to thank all of you who have left kind and encouraging reviews they are what keep me inspired and writing. Now, time to extinguish some flames.

The Extinguisher: (Please look in the Reviews section on the site to see which flames I am referring to.) Today, I received flames from the same person using different names they included: Guess Who, You Know Who and You Don't Know Shit.

First of all, my personality challenged friend, congratulations on such creative use of progression throughout your name, very witty…for a six or seven year old, maybe. I'd also like to point out that you didn't even bother to review my work. You see a review would have been to say something like "Good" or "Bad" you however, chose to be anal retentive and nitpick. The important thing about a story is that it should be engrossing, full of conflict and interesting characters. Perhaps I missed a few minor details but let me tell you that according to Tom Clancy's book Rainbow Six there IS a magnum 7mm for the Remington. Also the police in the game Resident Evil did use a Mossburg shotgun…read David's Journal for proof in the game.

Anyways, my point is that if the characters are interesting, the plot has depth, and good conflict is abundant then overlooking a few details doesn't matter. What does the type of bullet have to do with advancing the story in an interesting way? Nothing. People read stories to be entertained by how the plot plays out and what happens to the characters involved within that plot. If we nitpicked over every little, insignificant inaccuracy we saw or heard or read we would never be entertained. A story should be exciting and full of interesting characters…small details that mean nothing overall should not matter. I hope you have found this educating and I hope that you will continue to read and review my work in the future. Remember, a review is something that gives your opinion on the chapter/story i.e. "good" or "bad". Understand? Have a good day and thank you for reading Three Days In A Nightmare.


	8. Running Blind

**Chapter 7: Running Blind**

October 1, 1998

8:40 PM

Bauer Street, Raccoon City

Physical exertion had never bothered Zeke Wilcott. Like any Ranger his morning began with running at least five miles, followed by a few hours of weight lifting and light stretching. The exercise never failed to leave him feeling energized, awake and alive. Not once had he ever felt fatigued because of it but now, running through the streets of Raccoon City with the rain slapping him in the face, the lieutenant felt beyond fatigued. Zeke felt drained and defeated.

He knew such feelings were not a result of the hour long run he had made with the others, supporting Rachel with one arm as they charged up the dimly lit road. Nor was it as a result of the merciless rain or harsh, biting winds or even the heavy rucksack strapped across his back. His reasons for feeling washed-out went far beyond the realm of the physical and into that of the emotional. It was fear and confusion like none he'd felt before that was sucking his strength from his body like a leech. Fears, confusion, sorrow; all were present, weighing his heart down.

Captain Sullivan, a man Zeke had greatly admired and respected, was dead. As were five other people Zeke had worked beside for years and considered good friends. Looking around, the lieutenant saw his gloomy thoughts written across the faces of the others: their eyes clouded with grief, lips curled tightly together, chins sagging towards each man's chest.

Zeke knew it was selfish, but he was also aware that part of the reason why he was moving so slowly was because of the responsibility now placed on him. With Sullivan gone he was now in command. The success of the mission and, more importantly, the lives of his teammates now rested squarely on his shoulders and was weighing him down heavily.

_'How can I do this?' _Lieutenant Wilcott wondered as the group passed underneath a streetlight, somewhere in the distance a chorus of hollow, soulless moans rose up on the night air. _'I've never had to lead an entire detail in a real life situation in my whole life before. What am I going to do if anyone else gets hurt, if anyone else gets killed? What would I tell Ryan's wife or Wesley's parents? What…'_

"Lieutenant?" Rachel muttered, drawing Zeke out of his dark thoughts, he noticed she looked alarmingly pale.

"What is it, Rachel?"

"It's my leg." She replied weakly. She was breathing weakly as well now that Zeke thought about it. "I hate to sound like a cry baby but do you mind if we take a breather and patch me up."

"Good idea." Zeke said with a small smile as he felt a pang of guilt for dragging the girl along so far with a broken leg. Some leader he was, getting so wrapped up in his own worries that he forgot about the injuries of his own people. "Everyone hold up."

The other Rangers came to a halt behind their commander, sucking in heavy breaths. The lieutenant took a moment to survey the street they were on. Cars, dark and empty, dotted the wet road. There were several small homes lining the cracked sidewalks but all looked as lonely and abandoned as the vehicles did. Moans, pathetic and empty, drifted over from nearby and Zeke shuttered in spite of himself, they needed to get moving again. He spotted an apartment complex a few feet up the road, the windows on the first floor were boarded up but the front door hung wide open, dangling precariously on its hinges. The building looked just as forbidding as any of the others but Zeke knew they had to find a place to get out of the rain and bandage Rachel's leg lest run the risk of letting the wound become infected. Besides, he didn't plan on staying there any longer than a few minutes as it was.

"Up ahead." Zeke said, gesturing towards the tall, brick structure of the apartment building. "Wes and Scott, I want you two to move in and secure the lobby. We'll follow when you say it's clear."

Nodding, the two men dashed forward. When both Rangers reached the front door they raised their weapons and cautiously moved up the front steps, Zeke could see Wesley move left while Scott scanned to the right before the pair disappeared through the shadowy archway. The lieutenant pressed himself up against one side of the door frame as his men began their search of the lobby, he could scarcely hear the sounds of creaky floorboards and crunching glass as Wesley and Scott moved about inside. Rachel's head dropped wearily across his chest.

"It's okay," he whispered gently in her ear, "just hang on a little while longer. I'll have you dancing on that leg again in no time."

Wesley poked his head back through the doorway giving a steady thumbs up with one hand. "All clear, lieutenant. Looks like even the roaches decide to pack up and skip town."

Zeke nodded to the others and the group hastily climbed the front steps. The hardwood floor of the lobby was littered with dust and broken glass; dried bloodstains appeared in abundance. A toolbox and several loose planks of lumber also lay haphazardly strewn across the filthy floor. Set against the wall on the right side of the door was a reception desk. The desk's surface was blanketed in a coating of dust to rival that of the floor and the computer screen atop it was black and lifeless. There was a directory list screwed into the wall on one side but the Plexiglas frame that encased it had been smashed to bits. There was a single wooden door in the corner of the wall opposite the reception area with the label _'Maintenance' _stenciled across the top in flowing script against a metal plaque. At the far end of the lobby on the left side rested a pair of stainless steel elevators.

Zeke set his rifle down under one of the windows and proceeded to carefully lower Rachel down beside it. The lieutenant did his best to make sure he didn't set her down on any of the shards of glass that snapped underfoot but it was rather difficult to see in the almost pitch black of the apartment's lobby – someone had taken the liberty of turning out all the lights - and he waited, with a great deal of dread, for a cry of pain and indignation to erupt from the pilot at anytime. Rachel groaned sharply as she sat down and jerked her broken leg awkwardly.

"Sorry," Zeke mumbled sincerely, "try and take it easy. Coop, watch the door, give me a shout if any of those…things…start to come our way."

"Yes sir." Cooper replied, turning to watch the streets, his massive frame filling up the doorway and blocking out the electric glow of the streetlights. At the same instant Scott entered through the maintenance room.

"You didn't happen to find a bloody light switch while you were back there did you?" Wesley asked, turning from his position across the lobby to face the other man.

"I'm afraid not." Scott shook his head. "But even if I had it wouldn't do us much good."

"What do you mean?" Zeke asked, turning his gaze from Rachel to glance over his shoulder at Scott. The sergeant gave a deflated sigh.

"I found the circuit breaker," he answered, "the whole thing is totally FUBAR. Beyond repair. Looks like someone clubbed it to death."

"Bloody spectacular." Wesley grumbled, sagging back against the reception desk.

"Relax Wes, it's not like we plan on spending the night here." Zeke said then turned his eyes back to the injured pilot. Her soft skin had turned from a healthy color to a milky shade of white. Beads of sweat slowly rolled down her forehead and dotted her cheeks with moisture. The pilot clenched her jaw and sucked in gasps of air through her teeth. Zeke could see the pain mirrored in her watery eyes.

"Let's see what we can do for you." He said cracking open Kirk Judge's med-kit with one hand and used the other to smooth back Rachel's damp bangs. "You're tough as nails, major."

"I'd say I'm made of steel," She chortled lightly then grimaced with the effort, "but it feels more like dry twigs at the moment. Ah God!" Rachel cried out, arching her back and squirming where she sat as the lieutenant doused the bloody, broken fabric of her leg with anti-septic. Part of the bone had gone through the skin, leaving the area an angry, raw looking red. "Oh man, that hurts like a bitch!"

"Sorry, but we can't let this get infected." Zeke said, sympathy and guilt forming dark storm clouds in his eyes. "Now I'm going to have to tighten a split around your leg. It's going to sting more than a little bit but you'll be able to walk better, okay?"

"Get it over with." She said and, for the briefest of moments, the lieutenant thought she looked a great deal like she wanted to say more.

_'Probably wants to tell me that what happened isn't my fault.' _Zeke thought, his jaw forming a grim line as he fished out a splint and pair of bandages from the first-aid kit. _' She'd tell me that it's not my fault Sullivan and all the others are dead. That it's not my fault she's hurt. Maybe it's not but I still could have done something more to have prevented it all. I could have done…something. There must have been something else I could have done.' _

All in all, Zeke was glad Rachel had remained silent he needed to focus now more than ever. He watched apologetically as she closed her eyes and bit down on the inside of her cheek. When he tightened the splint around her shattered leg the pilot exuded a muffled shriek and tossed her head back hard enough to stir the dust resting on the boards behind her. Lastly Zeke wrapped a bandage around her exposed skin and made sure it was flush against her wound before sitting back on his heels and placing a supportive hand on Rachel's trembling shoulder.

"All done." He said with a rueful smile, hoping it touched his eyes so she would know he was sincere.

"I am _so _kicking your ass when we get back home, lieutenant." Rachel laughed, sharing Zeke's smile.

"Sounds fair." The lieutenant chuckled then his face grew longer, more serious. "I could give you something for the pain if you'd like."

"No," Rachel replied immediately, removing Zeke's hand from her shoulder as she struggled to sit up straighter. "No drugs. I'll just think of my happy place to keep my mind off it."

"Al – " Lieutenant Wilcott was cut off in mid-sentence by a soft chiming sound from the elevator, a noise that was mocking cheerful in a city consumed by death and insanity. Zeke groped for his rifle with one hand as the others spun and trained their weapons on the steel doors. Lazily, the two panels split apart, revealing an interior cloaked in blackness.

His rifle aiming into the shadows Zeke entirely expected to see a horde of the creatures – the zombies, he felt it was important to accept them for what they were no matter how impossible it was – spill out of the lift. He expected to see them climb over one another in a mindless frenzy, the scent of warm blood and sweating flesh fueling their bloodlust. He expected to see the ragged monsters stumble forward, blood and saliva staining their dirty clothing and peeling skin. Once again, Zeke Wilcott's expectations were not met.

Instead, what he saw was a thin ray of light knife through the darkness suffocating the lobby. The beam traced left then right then left wavered hesitantly for a moment. There was the sound of shuffling, cautious footsteps and a single figure entered the lobby.

The light from the flashlight the newcomer was holding provided enough illumination for Zeke to see the man's features clearly. The newcomer had searching, tired, suspicious looking brown eyes that were rimmed with red tissue. The newcomer's chin and upper lip were covered with thick, dark-colored hair, scraggly and unkempt. The man's pale skin as well as the black sweatshirt and tattered blue jeans were painted in a heavy coating of dust and grit. The man traced his light to the right, passing it over the group of soldiers, pausing as it illuminated each of their faces, and only then did Zeke become aware of the baseball bat the man – no the boy, he couldn't have been older than nineteen or twenty – held in his other hand.

"Who the hell are you guys?" The newcomer asked bravely, seemingly unaware or unphased by the number of automatic rifles pointed in his direction.

"We're with an Army Rangers detachment." Zeke replied, lowering his weapon a hair. "Our orders were to assist the local police with maintaining peace and order until the doctors here could get this crisis under their thumb. Unfortunately our helicopter malfunctioned and we were forced to make a crash landing. Five members of our unit were killed shortly after that, I needed a place to patch up my pilot here and this place was the closest. I'm Lieutenant Ezekiel Wilcott and I'm in charge here so, if you don't mind, put that bat down and tell me your name."

The newcomer hesitated at first. He swung the light over each soldier once more as if the confirm their identities, Rachel blinked weakly as the beam hit her eyes, noting their weapons, uniforms and gear. Finally the young man must have reached the conclusion that the soldiers were, in fact, soldiers as he lowered the flashlight with a mighty sigh and a grin spread across his grungy, unshaven face.

"Thank God you guys are here," he said jovially, taking a step forward, "I was starting to think the cavalry was never going to show up. Oh, right, my name. I'm Skip Francis."

"Nice to meet you, Skip," Zeke replied lowering his weapon and gesturing for the others to do the same. "Mind telling me what you were doing in that elevator?"

"And how you got it open, considering the circuit breaker is toast." Scott added, propping his M-4 across one shoulder.

"Oh, I found the keys to it in the maintenance room a few days ago." Skip said, regarding Scott a little nervously. "It let's you open the doors manually. It's a fail-safe in case the power goes out. As for what I'm doing in there," Skip glanced over his shoulder at the elevator, "well I was sleeping in there until I heard you all come in so I thought you might be more rioters and maybe I should check things out. I'm glad you're not though they came in here last week and turned the whole building inside out and upside-down. Totally wrecked my room, smashed the locked on my door even, so I figured it'd be better to hide out in there," the young man thrust a thumb over his shoulder, "since I'm the only one that's got the keys to it."

Zeke moved past Skip to investigate the dim hovel where the kid had been hiding for the past seven days. Even in the darkness the Ranger could make out the wrinkled, dirty blanket on the floor and the candy bar wrappers that surrounded it. There were also several empty cans of Pepsi littering the ground. The strong, warm scent of sweat and body odor hit the lieutenant hard in the face and he jerked his head out of the elevator.

"Looks like you've been eating well." Zeke said sarcastically, picking up a Mars Bar wrapper.

"I've been living off what I can find in the vending machines." Skip shrugged. "No way am I going out into the streets until I have to…maybe not even then."

"That's a pretty good plan, kid." Joseph Cooper said from over his shoulder as he stood keeping watch on the streets. "I hate to break it to you but there are worse things out there than the rowdy buttholes who messed up your crib."

"Wh-what's he talking about?" Skip turned to Zeke, his smudged face clouded with anxiety and confusion. Zeke regarded the young man for a moment then sighed.

"After we crash landed," The lieutenant explained, "our squad was…attacked by a large number of civilians."

"That doesn't surprise me." Skip snorted. "They've been looting the city for weeks now."

"No, these weren't rioters." Zeke said, shaking his head, and saw Skip's face fall. "They were…" he paused, "…they were…"

'They were sick." Wesley finished for his friend, eyes flickering dangerously. "Let's accept that and move on, alright? They looked like walking death, Skip. In fact, they _were _dead. They had rotting skin and tattered clothes and milky white eyes and everything else you see in those bloody stupid zombie movies!"

"Wes, take it easy on the poor guy!" Rachel snapped from where she sat resting. "We could use the kids help in figuring out what's going on here and you freaking him out is _not _going to do use any favours." The Brit grumbled something to him self then slumped back against the reception desk.

"The-these zombies," Skip's voice cracked, switching his twitchy gaze from Wesley back to Zeke. "Wh-what did they do?"

"They ate half our fucking chalk." Scott said, crossing his arms bluntly. "They walked right through everything we threw at them and started feasting like it was half-price night at Denny's."

"Oh…oh man." Skip breathed as he placed one hand on the edge of the reception desk to steady himself. The hand that held the flashlight shook rapidly.

"Look," Ryan chimed in, startling the others who had almost forgotten he was there. Zeke decided he would need to have a talk with the man – he was simply too quiet. "Let's not worry about that now. We need to figure out what to do next."

"Would getting out of Dodge happen to be anywhere on that list?" Wesley asked, looking askance at the lieutenant.

"Afraid not, Wes." Zeke said, giving his friend a rueful half-smirk. "Alright, everyone listen up, this what we're going to do. Scott, I want you to try and get Alpha, Bravo or Delta Company on the horn."

"Yes sir." Sergeant Owens set to work unslinging and setting up the field radio.

"Wesley," Zeke continued, "you and Ryan go help Rachel to her feet and see if she needs anything else. I want us to be able to move quickly."

"Aye, aye cap'n." Wesley said with that crooked smile of his and hasty salute before walking over to where Rachel sat slumped against the wall with the team's sniper in tow.

"Corporal Cooper?" Lieutenant Wilcott asked, turning to face the burly heavy gunner.

"Yo?" Cooper replied without taking his gaze off the street.

"How are things looking out there?"

"Nice and quiet, lieutenant. Not a creature stirring."

"And to think, that used to just be an expression." Wesley chuckled, the grunted as he slung and arm around Rachel and hoisted the young woman to her feet with Ryan's assistance.

"Sir," Scott said, holding out the radio to the lieutenant, "no one is answering on Alpha or Bravo's frequency but I'm getting something coming in from Delta Company. It's pretty scrambled though."

"I'll take what I can get." Zeke said, snatching the radio from Scott's outstretched hand and placing it against his ear. "This is Lieutenant Wilcott of Charlie Company, come in, over."

There was a long silence on the other end, then the crackle of static. Zeke listened intently, feeling hope kindle in his breast as he scanned the faces of his companions and saw the same tension and anxiousness painted across their features. Even Skip looked rather worried at the lack of response.

"I repeat," the lieutenant said, "this is Lieutenant Wilcott of Charlie Company, please come in Delta, over."

On the other end of the receiver came another long hiss of static. Suddenly a voice came on the line, an urgent, frightened voice that was punctuated by the steady crack of automatic gunfire, shouting, running footsteps and screaming. Rising above the terror filled wails was the sound of dragging feet and low, pathetic, _hungry _moans.

"Lieutenant!" The poor quality voice cried. "This…Captain Haag. Our helicopter…had to crash land. My team is under attack…some kind…monsters! Only three of us left now. The radio…damaged. We're…make for…24th Precient…shelter for…citizens." The signal died, slowly fizzling out into an endless hiss of static.

"Captain Haag!" Zeke yelled frantically into the mouthpiece. "Captain Haag, come in! Do you read me? Do you read!"

There was nothing but silence and that mocking hiss on the other end of the receiver. The lieutenant handed the radio back to Owens and sagged his shoulders. Never had he felt more helpless in his life. Zeke was defeated, Captain Haag and his men could help but they were out of reach and headed towards the police station.

"Damn it!" Zeke bellowed, giving his frustration voice as he drove a fist into the right wall hard enough to chip the plaster from it.

"Wh-what do we do now?" Skip asked timidly.

"Haag said that there was some kind of shelter set up at the police department for civilians. If we get there we could regroup and find someone who might know what's going on in this nuthouse." Ryan suggested, the Remington cradled across his chest.

"What do you say, boss?" Scott asked, packing up his radio again.

For a moment Zeke was silent. He just stood with both hands pressed against the crumbling wall, his face hard and set. He knew now just how hard it was to be in command; to have everyone looking to you to make not only a decision but the _right _decision. What he told them to do now could mean the difference between whether or not they went home in one piece of in body bags. So much could ride on what he decided they should do. _'Face it you're scared to make that decision. Right now you couldn't even decide between paper or plastic.'_

"Lieutenant," Wesley said, the word sounded strange to Zeke's ears after hearing the man refer to him by name for so many years. "Whatever you decide to do we'll back you up one hundred percent. Just do whatever you think is right."

Zeke twisted his head and regarded the sergeant intently. There was a great deal etched across the shaggy features of Wesley Creeks: trust, compassion, empathy, hope. There was a great deal of fear reflected in his eyes as well but Zeke could see that greater than despair in his friend's eyes was an even larger amount of faithfulness and loyalty.

The lieutenant knew, quite firmly, that no matter what decision he made, no matter what orders he gave, Wesley would follow it through to the very end. A wave of thankfulness washed over Zeke but there was an undertone of concern with it as well. He prayed that Wesley's steadfast loyalty would not get him into trouble.

"Okay," Lieutenant Wilcott said at last, pushing away from the wall to face his team. "Our destination is the 24th Precient. Skip, do you have a car?"

"Well, I _had _a car." The young man replied, looking thoughtful. "I don't know what kind of shape it's in now. The looters might have taken it or busted it up or who knows what else but I don't know for sure. I can take you down to the parking level to find out."

"Alright." Zeke said. "Scott, get the map out, I want you to plan the fastest route to the station, by car and by foot. Rachel, how are you doing?"

"Good to go, sir." The pilot nodded but Wilcott remained unconvinced. He had picked up on the note of strain and anguish she had tried to keep hidden in her tone.

"Wes, stay with Rachel…just in case." Zeke added as Rachel fixed him with a sharp glance.

Skip jumped halfway to the ceiling as Joe Cooper fired a short burst from his SAW. Even during the riots the lieutenant doubter Skip had heard a firearm go off so close. After the gunshots ceased, Skip lowered his hands from his ears, opened eyes previously clenched tight and looked ready to shit a brick when the pitiful, lost wailing groans from outside began to filter in.

"Better get moving, lieutenant." Cooper said with urgency, firing another short burst. "I think they sniffed us out, thirty of those rotting bastards are closing in on us from every which way."

"Everyone get to the elevator." Zeke said, surprised at how calm he kept his voice, already feeling the adrenaline flowing through his system anew.

Skip, apparently, needed no further prompting and took off for his sanctuary with an astounding zeal. The anguished, tortured noises from outside seeming to be drawing closer every moment. Wrapping one arm around her waist, Wesley helped Rachel limp over to the lift. There was another report from Coop's weapon and then both Scott and Ryan lunged headlong into the elevator.

"Come on!" Skip shouted to those still outside the relative safety of his hovel, as he reached for the manager's key and gave it a twist, instantly the lights in the elevator hummed to life and the machine groaned it's awakening.

"Get out of there, corporal!" Zeke ordered, training his rifle on the doorway as Cooper fired one last burst then turned and raced over to the lift.

The empty, hungry moans grew nearer and nearer, now joined by the sounds of shuffling, drunken footsteps as the creature's dragged their feet up the front steps. Zeke pressed the stock of his M-4 tight against his shoulder as the first of the cannibals reeled through the doorway.

The man's – the zombie's – dead white eyes caught sight of the lieutenant and slowly the _thing _staggered closer. Blood and gore stained the man's white shirt, was caked to his black slacks and scuffed shoes. The creature's face was devoid of any emotion, it's ashen skin a testament to its death but still it came closer. The zombie's mouth opened eagerly, rimmed in saliva and filth, revealing nubs of broken yellow teeth.

Cold sweat rolled down Zeke's forehead. _'Can't be real.' _Another, jerking, awkward step brought the monster closer. _'Can't be but is.' _Starring into the creature's lifeless eyes, Zeke pulled back on the trigger. A grouping of three ragged holes punched into the man's forehead, spraying the doorframe with crimson liquid and bone fragments. The zombie reeled backwards, rolling bonelessly down the steps. Four more of the living dead stumbled over the carcass – _'Not a carcass. He was dead before I shot him.' –_ and shouldered their way through the door.

"Let's go, lieutenant!" Rachel screamed behind him. The terror, fresh and awful, in her voice got Zeke's feet moving again. He charged headfirst into the elevator as more of the zombie horde pressed its way inside.

"Shut the doors!" Lieutenant Wilcott bellowed at Skip…and felt his heart turn to ice as he saw the look on the young man's face. Wild fright danced crazily in his eyes, his lips trembled as the ragged mob of nightmarish creatures lurched forward. Zeke had seen the look in men before, when they had frozen up on the battlefield.

Skip Francis, like any normal person, had experienced some rather bad dreams during the course of his life, however, they had never featured mindless, bloodthirsty undead from beyond the grave. Maniac clowns and fearsome piranhas, maybe, but never the undead. What he bore witness to standing in that elevator was worse than any nightmare he had ever had.

The zombies looked at him with their milky white eyes, their peeling faces covered in a blanket of crusty bloodstains and grime. Skip felt his heart constrict as he gazed into all those dead faces – _'So many of them.' _– listening to their wretched moaning as they extended grasping hands. He could smell the scent of the creatures – a putrid, diseased stench that made him want t gag. Skip's mind screamed at him to take action: _'Closethedoorsclosethedoorsclosethedoorsclosethedoors!' _Yet still he was unable to move, he felt as if his limbs had turned to stone, forcing him to watch the horror in front of his eyes.

One of the rotten faces pushed into the elevator, its cold, lifeless eyes penetrating deep into his frightened ones. The young man could see rows of decayed teeth lining the blackened gums of the cannibal's mouth – it seemed to be all he could see – watched as they parted to reveal a blackened tongue. Skip shivered as one, flaking hand close around his arm with crushing strength.

Skip's scream of pure, undiluted terror echoed in the elevator, rising far above the wails of the creatures that sought his life.

Lieutenant Wilcott saw the rotting man wrap his hand around the kid's shoulder, saw the wild fear flash brighter in Skip's eyes, and raised his rifle. Zeke took aim at the side of the cannibal's head as it lunged forward and pulled the trigger. The _click _sound his weapon emitted seemed louder than Skip's panicked cry or the eager groans of the monsters that came seeking a warm meal.

"Shit," Zeke said, yanking the spent magazine out of his weapon. "I'm out! Pierce!"

Hearing the lieutenant's urgent shout, the sniper leapt into action. With a single deft movement Sergeant Pierce drew his pistol with one hand then, using his other hand to support his wrist, the sniper fired twice into the face of Skip's attacker. Two holes opened up beneath the zombie's right eye and it fell limply to the floor. Ryan shoved the startled young man aside and fired twice more, dispatching another of the monstrous things before slamming down the button Skip had been standing next to. Slowly, the doors started to close.

Another of the zombies staggered forward, its decaying arms desperately grasping at the air in front of it. The creature pressed onward, managing to get one foot inside the elevator but Zeke Wilcott was back on his feet. His weapon reloaded, it took the Ranger only a moment to aim and pull the trigger. The creature's head disappeared in a puff of red and pink. The doors slid shut with a dull _thump._

Closing his eyes, Zeke sighed and fell back against the elevator wall, sliding to the floor. Next to him, Skip lay huddled in one corner, eyes wide, shaking like a leaf in a windstorm. A pang of sympathy ran through the lieutenant's body as he looked at the poor, dazed, young man. He had probably just graduated from college or university and had come to Raccoon City looking for a career and a little freedom. Too bad for him the place was overrun with the walking dead.

"Oh man, oh man." Skip whined, bringing his knees up to his chest and hugging them like a long lost relative. "There is no _way _this is happening!"

"It's happening, kid. Better accept that and move on." Ryan said, hitting the button marked "P" and the elevator began its steady descent.

"He – that thing – was going to bite me wasn't it?" Skip said, the pitch of his voice breaking every other word. "It was going to try and eat me alive."

While Skip had been looking at Zeke when he said that it was Joseph Cooper who answered. "Well, if that's the worst thing that happens to you tonight then consider yourself lucky."

Cooper's reply did not seem to encourage the younger man. Skip squeezed his eyes shut and rested his head against the elevator wall, rocking back and forth like a madman.

"This can't be happening." Skip repeated the words over and over to himself. "This can't be happening."

Zeke glanced over at Skip as he rambled on and on, repeating the phrase over and over as if denying the truth would change their situation. "This can't be happening. This can't be happening." Zeke wished he could agree.

Author's Note: Here you are my Readers. I hope you enjoy this chapter and for those of you reading Come Clean as well a new chapter should be up some time this week. Enjoy and thank you for all the kind reviews.


	9. Hitching A Ride

**Chapter 8: Hitching A Ride**

October 1, 1998

7:34 PM

Chesterbaum Avenue, Raccoon City

They were everywhere, Officer Eddie Gabbor noticed. The creatures or zombies or _whatever _they were had taken over the city. It made no difference where he and Ben ran, there were always dozens of the monsters lurking about, shambling aimlessly down the streets, bumping into one another without notice or care. Blood and gristle clung to the tattered remains of their clothing, dripped from their mouths and everywhere the stench of decay followed the two police officers relentlessly – an entity all its own.

"Hurry up, brickhead," Officer Ben Tredd snapped breathlessly, running ahead of his partner. "You're lagging behind."

As much as it annoyed Eddie to admit that his partner was right he realized that in this case there was no other option. He _was _falling behind. Running over long distances, for extended periods of time, in a city full of flesh eating monsters had never been part of Eddie's training at the academy. Jumping over tall fences, yes but not this.

Every fiber in every muscle of the rookie's legs cried out for rest. His chest ached, each breath like drawing icy daggers into his lungs. Sweat and rain water continuously ran into his eyes, blurring his vision and leaving the young man half-blind. More than once the officer had tripped over himself trying to keep up with Ben. The run wasn't so bad though – he had lost any feeling in his feet long ago.

"Where are we going anyways?" Eddie asked, huffing and puffing as the two men charged up the sidewalk.

"I'll decide that in good time." Ben said, making no attempt to hide the irritation in his voice, nor any attempt to slow his pace. "Just give me some time to think. Come on, we've got to get out of this storm first."

Signaling his partner to follow with one hand, Benjamin darted across the open road and to the other side. He stopped when he reached the small _711 _convenience store. The neon sign above the door was still lit and the glass front doors gave both men an excellent view inside the store. Lights were blinking on and off inside the shop, flashing across the tipped over shelves and food products strewn across the tile floor. From where he stood, Eddie was able to see the counter…and the spot where the cash register _used _to be plugged in. Not seeing a single person inside, Eddie waited for Ben to ease the door open before following inside.

The two officers stepped inside the store and moved around slowly, surveying the scene. Shelves lay overturned, their contents recklessly scattered across the ground. Freezer cases once containing milk and ice cream had been smashed and emptied. Glass shards from the freezers and broken light bulbs littered the dirty tile floor. Outside, lightning flashed, thunder roared and Eddie jumped a foot. Ben Tredd regarded the younger cop with a look of disgusted contempt.

"Relax, yellowbelly," He said, "it's not the weather that you should be worried about."

"Well sorry if I'm a little edgy, Ben." Eddie spat, whirling on his partner, sick of being demeaned every time he did or said anything. "But I wasn't exactly expecting to show up to work today and have a mod of fucking _zombies _show up and sink their teeth into everyone I fucking work with. Fuck, do you always have to be such a prick about everything?"

"Just shut up and let me think." Ben retorted harshly and Eddie could see it in the other man's eyes that he had struck a chord. The rookie knew he shouldn't have felt any guilt over what he had said to Ben, Tredd deserved it for every put down and harsh word he had dispensed, but after seeing the flash of pain in his partner's eyes Eddie Gabbor couldn't help but feel at least a little guilt nagging at him.

_'Maybe he does care,' _Eddie thought as Ben took a seat atop the counter and placed his chin in his hands, _'maybe he does give a damn about what happened back at the barricade. He knew all those people better than I did, he worked with them for years, I was only with them for a few days. Maybe it's getting to him more than he's letting on and being a shit head is just his way of dealing with it. I doubt a guy like Ben would be the type to tell you what he was really feeling.'_

There was a loud thumping at the front door of the _711._ Eddie turned his head to looking. Scratching at the glass with yellowed fingernails were seven of the zombies – creatures that had once been living, breathing members of the Raccoon community. Now they were mindless monsters whose only impulse left was to search for food. Pity welled up in the young officer's gut as he stared at the dead faces pressed up against the glass, apparently oblivious to the rain pouring down on them.

"You know," the rookie said, breaking the uncomfortable silence without taking his gaze from the pathetic shapes that slapped feebly at the glass doors, "they were just like us once. They had friends, family and jobs. They watched the same TV shows as us, read the same stories in the newspaper, played with their kids and drove to work everyday. Just like us."

"What's your point?" Tredd scowled, looking up from his hands.

"I don't know." Eddie shook his head, turning away from the creatures as they clawed at the barrier before them. "It's just…it's all messed up. All those people out there – the ones at the barricade – they all used to be normal folks like anyone else and now look at them." Eddie gestured to the doors with his thumb but Ben refused to look up. "They're monsters. They used to be your everyday average person and now they would – "

"Kills us without a second thought," Benjamin cut in, looking his partner square in the eye with a penetrating gaze, "yeah I know. It's best not to think about them being ordinary people anymore, it just makes it harder to pull the trigger when of 'em gets in your way."

"I killed one of them, you know? It was back at the barricade." Eddie said, reliving the events in his mind. There was screaming and the smell of blood and gunpowder filled his head until it swam. He remembered feeling the pavement sliding beneath him as Ben dragged him backwards. He remembered watching the woman his partner shot crumple to the ground and then he was firing too. Eddie could hear the shot echo in his ears, feel the pistol jump in his hand, as he sent a single round through the forehead of one of the cannibals. The realization that he had taken a human life struck the young man hard again, making his stomach muscles clench violently. "I can't believe I killed someone."

"If it makes you feel any better," Ben sighed, pushing himself off the counter, "he would have killed you without a second thought. It was either you or him and you decided that it wasn't going to be you. I'd say that's the smartest thing you've done since we got stuck together. Besides," he waved absently at the group of zombies still pawing vainly at the front doors, "look at them. I'd say you did that poor bastard a favor by putting a bullet through his head."

"Well I sure don't feel that way."

"Yeah, well you can cry about it later newbie, for now just help me move this shelf in front of the door. I don't think they're bright enough to figure out how it works but I'd rather not take that chance."

Eddie moved across the room and helped Ben lift up one of the overturned shelves. "Won't this trap us in here?" He asked tentatively and Tredd rolled his eyes.

"Jeez," he said, wedging the shelf in front of the doors with the other man's assistance. "Didn't you ever have a part-time job working in one of these dives? There's always a backdoor for taking out the trash at the end of the night."

"Alright, alright," Eddie said, dropping to the floor and rocking back on his heels. "What do we do next, genius?"

"Watch the smart mouth, brickhead." Tredd cautioned, then joined him on the floor. "First things first, we have a bit of a hike ahead of us and those _things _are crawling all over the place, so how are you set on ammo?"

"Four rounds left and then I'm dry." Eddie replied, ejecting the clip from his Beretta and counting the rounds.

"What about in your back-up weapon?" Tredd asked, ejecting the clip from his pistol and slapping in the last one he had.

"Back-up weapon?"

"You don't carry a weapon in addition to your sidearm?"

Frowning, Eddie shook his head. Ben rolled his eyes once more.

"Sheesh, you really are a newbie." Tredd reach down and pulled up the cuff of his pantleg, revealing a small ankle holster that held a snub-nosed .38 revolver. "It's just good policy to carry a spare in case a perp manages to get a hold of your pistol or, I suppose, if you wind up in an extremely fucked up situation like this. Here," Ben unholstered the handgun and tossed it to his partner who caught it awkwardly, "you take it. I should be okay."

"What if you run out?" Eddie asked, tucking the small gun into the back of his waistband.

"Then I guess I'll just have to get by on my good looks." Ben said with a sardonic grin. "Now, let's do the common sense thing and radio in to the station, I'll let you do the honors rookie."

"Dispatch this is Officer Gabbor requesting immediate assistance, the west barricade has been completely overrun, come in, over." Eddie let go of the button on his radio and waited to hear something. The only thing to be heard was the pitiful moans of the creatures outside. Panic stabbed at the young man's heart. "Dispatch please respond, over."

There was silence, followed by a short crackle of static and then silence again. Eddie sighed and looked over at his training officer. "Nothing."

"Typical," Officer Tredd said with obvious displeasure, "that's just typical. Just my luck too. Alright, if they can't tell us what happened then we're going to have to go and find out for ourselves."

"You mean head back to the station?"

"Duh." Tredd said as he rose to his feet, brushing his jacket off. "We need to find out why no one there is answering our calls, besides that's probably the only place in this city that hasn't gone totally batshit yet."

"That, and the fact that you don't have any better ideas at the moment right?" Eddie said bravely and couldn't resist the urge to smirk. It felt good to be on the offensive for once.

"Yeah, well at least I came up with the idea instead of just sitting on my rump so bite me, greenhorn." Tredd countered, tongue cracking like a whip.

"Clever choice of words." Quipped the rookie as he stood.

"Can it." Ben ordered as he started towards the back of the store.

Sure enough, the two cops managed to find the store's service entrance in no time. It was a single steel door, it's surface marred with dents and chips in the white finish, located at the far end of the shop. A garbage can lay on its side next to the entranceway. Ben eased the door open cautiously with his handgun upraised and the two men proceeded out into the darkness with their weapons drawn.

Outside the service entrance was a long ramp, slick with rain that Eddie assumed was used by delivery trucks for unloading product shipments to the store. Set up against the concrete wall on the right side was a brown steel dumpster bearing the yellow triangle insignia of the Raccoon Waste Management Company. Ben swept the area with his flashlight and Eddie did likewise, while everything appeared to be relatively safe the hungry grunts and groans of the walking dead were not far off. Together, the two officers moved up the steep ramp, their shoes scrapping the wet pavement beneath them as the rain continued to fall in sheets.

"Hey, Ben?"

"Christ, what is it now?" Tredd asked annoyed, sweeping his light left to right through the storm.

"I was thinking," Eddie replied, blinking as rain continued to drip down into his eyes, "you know about those cannibal murders that happened around here in June?"

"Yeah, what about 'em? How did you know about those anyways, I thought you were from New York?"

"We still get CNN there, Ben." The rookie said, thoroughly exhausted with the fact that his partner seemed to think so little of him as to assume he did not watch the news. "I was just thinking that maybe there's a connection with what happened in the Arklay Forest and what's happening right now. It's not like there's been a lot of time in between the two events or anything."

"Don't be stupid, brickhead." Ben reprimanded the rookie as the two of them moved past the metal dumpster. "That was an isolated incident, out in the middle of nowhere, that involved a small group of maybe ten people. An entire city is not ten people. Besides, the official investigation said it was probably some cult squatting in the old Spencer Estate."

"Yeah, _probably,_" Eddie said, "but nothing was proven and the team Chief Irons sent to check it out came back with half their people missing and the rest of them were branded as drug addicts so their statement to the press was never released. The case they were working on was never even officially _closed_ it was just swept under the rug. Don't you think that's a little strange?"

"What I think is that you need to stop thinking so much." Ben said, giving his partner a sour look over his shoulder.

"Well I'm just – " Eddie halted in mid-sentence as he heard something crash down behind him.

The two men whirled as one, training their lights across the area. The beams cut through the rain, falling across the wet pavement, the concrete walls and then the dumpster as one of the plastic covers flew open and a shadowy blur leapt out.

The shadow jumped out of the trash bin with such astounding speed that Eddie wasn't sure if he had seen it at all. He scanned around frantically with his flashlight, his heart quickening as his mind began to imagine what new horror this was: a six-armed gorilla, maybe? A hideous alien being that would suck the marrow from their bones? Part of Eddie's mind tried to tell him that believing such things could exist was childish but, before tonight, he had also thought it childish to believe in flesh-eating zombies.

It was Ben's light that illuminated the shadow first. Eddie heard his training officer, whom he had always thought carved from stone, gasp in terror. A moment later Officer Gabbor did the same.

The darkness around the shadow was swept away by Ben's flashlight and what Eddie could only think of as a demon was revealed. The monster sat perched on all fours, it's body long but not tall. It had no skin; twitching red muscle sinew glistened slickly in the pouring rain. At the tips of its thick hands and feet – the young cop did not know which were which – a set of smooth, piercing claws, as white as ivory, beat a steady _click-click _on the asphalt. Most horrifying of all, the mutant's brain was exposed, dark eye slits beneath a mass of spongy gray matter. The demon – there simply was _no _other name for it – breathed in ragged, raspy gulps of air. Eddie watched in disbelief as a length of red muscle rolled out over sharp nubs of teeth, extended to nearly ten feet in the air and snapped back into the creature's mouth with a quick flick.

"What the…" Ben began slowly but was unable to finish as the abomination flung itself at the wall on to his right. Those wicked claws dug deep into the concrete, holding the monster in place, and it hissed a terrible, shrilling cry before barreling towards the two officers with that same impossible speed. "Um…_run_!"

Eddie felt his partner tug at his jacket sleeve and then the two were racing up the slope, their feet slapping against the wet ground. Torrents of wind splashed water up into the rookie's eyes and for a moment he feared it would blind him, causing him to trip and fall to be left to the demon's mercy. As he ran, the only sounds Officer Gabbor was aware of was his heartbeat thumping painfully in his ears and the hasty _click-clack_ sound of the creature scuttling behind them. Judging by the noise alone Eddie could tell it was gaining fast.

"Go!" Ben ordered as the two men reached the top of the slope. He paused, turned and fired twice at the crawling beast. The two rounds slapped wetly into what Eddie thought would have been the monster's shoulder, spraying the wall with blood and knocking the demon to the ground. It lay writhing on its back for a brief second, wildly failing its clawed appendages, then with horrifying grace and agility, the mutant flipped itself back onto its stomach and continued its charge.

Eddie looked around in a panic, vaguely aware that his partner was still firing behind him. His mind spinning and heart racing, the rookie had to force himself to stay calm and keep from charging off in a blind dash. He saw that the street split in two directions, left and right. To the left an intersection and an alleyway with a chain-link fence at the end but twenty or thirty of the zombie creatures were wandering lazily around the street and alleyway, heading in that direction would be suicide. Eddie snapped his head to the right and saw that it was a clear stretch of road all the way up to the intersection.

"Ben, this way!" The rookie screamed to his partner and began running but stopped when Tredd's rough hand clenched around his wrist and started to pull him in the opposite direction. Toward the cannibals. "Stop! What are you doing? Are you crazy?"

"Like a fox." Tredd muttered, pulling his protesting partner towards the mob of zombies standing in front of the alley. Behind him the monstrosity hissed its frustration and gave chase. "Get ready to duck and dodge, brickhead!"

"This is _nuts_!" Eddie cried in despair as Ben yanked him into the mass of creatures. The smell of disease and decay washed over the young cop in a sickening wave as peeling hands groped at his clothing and cold breath blew across his skin. His vision was filled with the sight of pale hands, dead white eyes, bloodstained clothing, and crumbling faces. Not far behind, Officer Gabbor could hear the demon shrieking.

A pale, bloody hand closed around Eddie's shoulder and he screamed in disgust, pushing the body it was attached to away from him with every ounce of strength he possessed. Ducking under another pair of rotting arms, Eddie halted as something wrapped around his ankle, nearly sending him sprawling. Looking down the rookie could see one of the undead laying across the floor, his gore stained fingers clenching tightly the cuff of Eddie's pant-leg.

"Get off me!" The young officer demanded, kicking hard at the arm. Eddie thought he might empty his stomach when he heard the arm crunch beneath the treads of his shoe. The grip loosened and Eddie charged forward, frantically shoving aside any of the creatures that got too close, trying not to think about how cold and pliable their skin felt to the touch. "Ben, wait up!"

"Come on, brickhead!" Ben called from somewhere up ahead. "My plan's working, just keep moving!"

Eddie lashed out with his flashlight, knocking one of the cannibals upside the head as it veered unexpectantly into his path, and continued to run. He risked a glance over his shoulder and finally realized what the reason to his partner's madness had been.

The scuttling demon had fallen well behind them now, slashing with outraged fury at the zombies barring its way. While the mutant's powerful claws tore thick gashes across the chests of the cannibals they did not seem to feel the injuries. No matter how much flesh it tore from the bone, how much blood it split, the zombies pressed determinedly towards the two living officers, creating a wall of decaying flesh that left the horrid beast behind. Its speed was no advantage to it now.

Looking away in disgust, Eddie could see his training officer standing at the lip of the alleyway, firing his pistol into the horde of walking corpses that pursued them relentlessly. The younger officer raced forward as fast as his tired legs would carry him. Adrenaline coursed ceaselessly through his bloodstream, his heart pumping such a rapid rate Eddie sincerely thought for a moment that the organ would burst in his chest. Breathing was becoming a terrible labor for the young policeman and for the short moment Officer Gabbor though about giving up, lying down and letting the horrid creatures that sought his life take it from him. This thought dissipated as quickly as mist in a strong wind, as Eddie saw something that sent fresh waves of excitement and hope through his aching body.

"Ben, look!" He cried in elation, pointing past the shaggy-haired officer.

Tredd dropped another of the zombies with two rounds to the head then glanced over his shoulder in the direction his partner was pointing. Standing on the opposite side of the fence was an eighteen-wheeler. The metallic blue big rig sat idling with the window rolled down and the chubby, red, frightened face of a man – a living man – poked out along with a hand of fat fingers that beckoned the two men towards him.

"Come on!" The driver shouted, his green eyes wide with fear. "Get in!"

"Go Eddie!" Ben said, turning his attention back to the mob of undead closing in on them. "Run yellowbelly!"

"What about you?" The rookie called back, even as he sidestepped towards the fence.

"I'm right behind you, now move!" Tredd's Beretta barked twice more and another of the walking nightmares sagged to the floor.

Without risking another word or another glance, Eddie took off, full speed ahead, towards the fence. The thought suddenly occurred to the young man that the fence was now the only obstacle barring his way from potential freedom of the madness of Raccoon City. Eddie felt his heart stop as a pair of peeling gray arms came around the corner and fall across his shoulders. His flashlight fell from his startled hands, crashing to the ground and, just before the light it gave off died, the rookie saw that where two more entrances to the alley: from the left and right sides. Two more entrances that were welling up with the rotting, flesh-eating terrors.

Screaming in terrified disgust, Eddie shoved the creature – a man in faded blue jeans and a white shirt covered in crust red stains – away from him. On reflex the Officer Gabbor raised his weapon and fired a single shot into the man's wretched visage, punching a hole beneath his right eye, and the body fell. Eddie was dimly aware of the gunshots fired by his partner as he too continued to open up on the cannibalistic mob. Eddie fired three more times, saw two more zombies go down, and then his back hit the chain links behind him …and his weapon clicked empty.

"Damn it!" Officer Gabbor swore, no longer aware of the reports from his partner's sidearm. He dropped the empty Beretta and immediately drew the sleek black nightstick in his utility belt. A chill ran up his spine as Eddie felt the zombies rotten hands and yellowed fingernails crawling all over his arms and torso, could feel their diseased breath drift across his neck. Reacting out of pure instinct the rookie began to swat wildly at the outstretched arms and empty faces. He was unaware of anything happening around him, everything was lost in a haze of crimson and misty terror, until his arm was too tired and the baton was too slick with blood to hold anymore. Eddie's fingers slipped on the slippery nightstick and it tumbled out of his hand, clattering to the pavement. He reached around for Ben's revolver but it was too late, a set of dead, peeling hands closed around his neck, pulling him towards a mouth of cracked, brown teeth.

"No!" Ben Tredd cried out and Eddie could feel those cold, clammy hands release him. He blinked in disbelief as his training officer wrapped his hands around the zombie's shoulders and pulled the creature back. Officer Tredd also had drawn his nightstick as well and brought it down across the undead's skull hard enough to crack through the bone. Blood rolled slowly out of the wound as the corpse staggered to the ground.

"Climb the fence, brickhead. Now, damn it!" Ben said, turning to level another of the shambling cannibals with his baton as more of their number filtered into the alleyway. Eddie had seen all the emotion in the look his partner had given him, all the anger and rage and frustration. He didn't hesitate as he vaulted himself at the fence and began to climb. _'_Ben Tredd _saved my life.'_ It was a truly strange thought.

"Move it, son!" The trucker called, gesturing towards him with one hand, voice tight with panic. "Run!"

"Ben!" Eddie yelled at his partner, crashing to the pavement in a heap before racing to the passenger side of the big rig and throwing the door open. Whirling around he turned to search for the senior officer.

Angry, exhausted grunting from behind him clued Eddie in to his partner's location. He saw Ben climbing the fence his scruffy hair and rough skin caked with blood and nameless bits of gore. Tredd clutched his pistol in one hand as he hastily tried to pull himself over the metal crossbar of the fence. Suddenly, Tredd's eyes and mouth shot open in an expression of sharp pain, the handgun clattered to the ground on the other side of the fence.

Eddie looked on in horror as one of the cannibals wrapped its pale hand around his partner's dangling leg and sunk its teeth deep into the flesh of Ben's calf muscle. He saw the Beretta fall, heard his partner's cream as the mob of zombies dragged him from the fence. Officer Eddie Gabbor stood frozen, completely unaware of the chubby fingers grasping at the sleeve of his jacket, his wide eyes fixed solely on the scene in front of him. Ben's last words echoed through the streets before the horde of cannibals swallowed him up, obscuring his body from sight, like the sea does to the foolish surfers bold enough to try and tame it.

"EDDIE!" Ben Tredd shrieked and then his words were drowned out by the unworldly moaning of the zombies as they overwhelmed the officer.

_'They're _eating _him.' _Eddie thought in mute terror, face gaping. The thought was the most horrible realization he had ever experienced. Slowly, numbly, the rookie cop raised the revolver, pointing it at the indecipherable mass of creatures that had killed his training officer. Eddie drew back the hammer, felt cool steel beneath his finger but then a hand was pushing his arms down , forcing him to lose any shot he might have had. A thick paw of a hand closed around his shoulder, whirling the young officer around so that he came face to face with the round, meaty visage and glowing brown eyes of the trucker.

"Don't bother son," the trucker said in a low voice, "it's useless. He's done for. Now, get in here!"

Glancing back over his shoulder Eddie saw only a shapeless mass of people that by all rights should have been dead, pushing and rattling against the chain-link fence that stood in their path. Eddie turned back slowly and, as if he were being controlled by some other force than his own will, accepted the trucker's outstretched hand and allowed himself to be pulled inside.

"Ben…" Eddie mumbled absently, unaware that he had spoken at all, as the truck rumbled to life and started off down the road. "This…can't be."

The trucker placed a hand on the rookie's shoulder and started to speak but Eddie couldn't hear a word he said. Suddenly, he was deaf and blind. It was frightening at first, as the darkness and silence stole over him, but then the young officer realized what was really happening.

He was blind because he was weeping and his eyes were closed. He was deaf because he could not hear anything over the pitiful, broken sound of his sobbing.

Author's Note: I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to you, my Readers, for my sub-par use of page breaks in previous chapters. Sadly, this site does not support some of my tricks for using them and I know this must have made things a tad bit confusing so I will try to be more careful in using them in the future. I hope you enjoy this chapter and pray that you will continue to read and review my work: I crave feedback. Look for a new update soon and for those of you reading Come Clean as well a new chapter should be up within the week. Thank you and enjoy.

The Extinguisher:(Please look in the Reviews section of this story to see what flames I am referring to.)

During this update's Extinguisher I would like to speak with the gentleman (or lady) who has flamed every chapter of this story thus far. Thank you very much for showing such a great interest in Three Days In A Nightmare! I am so glad that you have been interested enough to read every single chapter of the chronicles of the Raccoon survivors. However, I think you have mistaken the purpose of The Extinguisher. Its purpose is not so I can "bitch" at my readers who I believe to be an interesting and intelligent lot of people. Rather, its function is that I might answer the queries of persons such as your self who wonder why I have done what I have done. Allow me to do that now.

Yes, my knowledge of firearms may not be as wide as yours (something I'm sure I'll lose sleep over) but I can't help to notice that you aren't an author on this site. Perhaps your criticisms would mean more to me if you were a writer yourself and could actually show me some of your work. You may know about guns but do you know how to write an interesting story? Do you know how to write one full of action, conflict, plot twists and character development? Have you ever written anything at all? I ask simply because I would like to know what type of person is criticizing me. I can handle negative criticism and by all means go ahead and tell me what you dislike about this story, merely, your opinion would mean more to me if you yourself were a writer and understood that an interesting story goes beyond such small details as bullets and guns.

I hope you have found this educating and pray that you will continue to follow the adventurers of the Raccoon survivors as they try and escape the horrors of the city. I also pray that you will continue to give me feedback but please, if you insist on flaming as you have done so about minor details, e-mail them to me at and I would be more than happy to write you back and discuss such concerns with you or anyone else who has them. However, I would appreciate it if you did not take up space in the Reviews section with flames over such small issues as the type of rifle Ryan Pierce uses. I would also like to say that this is the last time I will mention you in The Extinguisher for reasons that your quips have been rather redundant, feel free to flame on though! I hope you have found this enlightening.


	10. A Transmission From The Living

**Chapter 9: A Transmission From The Living**

October 1, 1998

7:40 PM

Mill Street

"Hold up." Kathryn gasped, falling behind the two men ahead of her, placing her hands on her knees and drawing in deep, labored breaths. "I just need…a second to…catch my breath."

"Alright, we'll take a short break here. We've been running for at least an hour and a half, I don't see any of those things around so hopefully that means we've put some distance between them and us. We should be okay for a few minutes anyways." Foster said to the others, leaning heavily against the side of a Home Hardware store with them and mentally thanking Officer Ward for speaking up first and calling for a breather.

Jacob was exhausted too and while he was far from being in peak physical condition he knew it was more than the run that was sapping his strength. It was something much worse than mere tiredness. It was all the realizations that he had been too frightened, too panicked, to have processed at the barricade coming back to him now.

Each revelation overwhelmed the stocky officer in a fresh wave of grief and regret. Each new thought hitting him as hard as a punch to the gut and leaving him feeling as if he might vomit. Foster shut his eyes and tried to concentrate on his heavy, steady breathing but it was no use. The memories and thoughts continued to assault his mind, the pictures dancing around crazily behind his closed lids.

Images of the battle played through Jacob's mind, a twisted, perverse slideshow of blood and pain and things that could only exist in the darkest of dreams. There was no escape from the horrifying theatre of his mind, the projector that flashed scenes of his friends being torn apart limb by limb, and devoured by creatures that had somehow eluded the grasp of death, had no off switch. The SWAT team leader was forced to watch, numb with terror, his heart weighted down with sorrow, loss and worst of all responsibility, as he saw the expressions his comrades had worn during their last moments play past his closed eyes.

Some of the faces were young and smooth others were more mature and creased with the lines of experience. All the faces had the same eyes though, wide and full of incredulity that turned into sharp, knifing pain as the zombies grabbed hold of them and sank decaying teeth into warm flesh. Finally, the eyes glossed over, the light within them dying, then the eyes themselves served merely as a gateway into the deceased's mind and the impossible fear they had felt during their last moments.

The events continued to play through Foster's mind, making his head buzz. It all seemed so real to him: the gunfire, the screams, the empty, soulless moaning of the creatures and their diseased scent. Tears rolled between the sergeant's shut lids and suddenly he could no longer hear. Foster tried desperately to breathe but no air would fill his lungs. He could feel his heart beating frantically against his ribs, so violent and rapid that he thought it might burst. Spots, white and yellow, flashed behind his eyes like small fireworks localized inside his skull and Jacob felt his stomach churn and roll over. His knees buckled and turned to water. Sergeant Foster staggered, doubled-over and wretched a thick puddle of putrid smelling bile. Almost instantaneously his hearing returned and his lungs began to function once again. Foster gulped in large amounts of air, savoring its sweet taste, as he starred into what had once been his dinner.

"Damn it." He gasped, wiping at his eyes.

"Shit, you okay Tubbs?" Sam asked, immediately moving to stand at his friend's side, an arm around the other man's shoulders.

"I killed them." Jacob said, not really hearing his subordinate, a sob shaking his stout form. "I killed all of them."

"No you didn't, chief." Sam said. "You didn't kill anyone. You tried to save all our guys back at the blockade. You tried to protect them, remember Tubbs?"

"No," Foster shook his head angrily, still unable to look up at the younger trooper, fearing all the accusation that Sam's eyes would contain despite the words he had just uttered. "_I _killed them. I was in command they were _my _responsibility. It's my fault they died."

"Jacob," Kathy said soothingly, walking over to lay a gentle hand across his back. "It's _not _your fault, none of it. We weren't prepared for what happened. We had no idea what we were up against, shit we still don't!"

"We _should_ have been prepared!" Foster bellowed, enraged at how helpless he felt now, angry at how many lives had been lost needlessly. '_My responsibility. My fault.' _"I was in charge, it was duty to make sure we were prepared for _anything_!"

Foster jerked suddenly, gasping and shoving Sam away. The SWAT team leader stumbled awkwardly and fell to the sidewalk, furiously scratching at his injured hand. The spot where the creature had bitten him was raw and covered in a film of dried blood and tendrils of skin. The wound looked insubstantial but for Jacob it felt as if someone hand lit a small fire in his hand. He scratched at the injury, tearing it open with his fingernails, desperately trying to smother the fire inside, blood running down his palm and across his wrist. There was no relief to the sensation though and Foster continued to claw away at the wound, feeling the heat crawl up his arm and into his head, making his ears buzz and eyes blur. Groaning, a sound that made both Sam and Kathryn shudder in remembered horror, Jacob continued to rake his fingers across the raw flesh of his hand until a set of strong fingers wrapped around his wrist and yanked his arm back.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Tubbs?" Sam demanded, his voice cracking with barely contained fear. It took Jacob a moment to realize that it was Sam who was holding his arm pinned against the wall of the store. After a moment of looking up at his friend blankly Foster saw Kathy step into his vision…at least he thought she stepped into his view, maybe she had been standing beside Samuel all along. Her gentle face was covered in creases and lines of stress and concern.

"My hand," Foster replied slowly, the buzzing in his ears making it difficult to think in a straight line – to concentrate on his words. "It's itchy. It's hot."

Taking his superior's chubby hand, Sam examined the injury. The young man cringed when he saw the loose clumps of skin hanging from the cut that Jacob had further aggravated. Gently, he set Foster's hand down and gripped his commander by the shoulders, forcing the older man to look him in the eyes.

"I won't like to you man," Sam said, and Jacob didn't think he could remember a time when Sam had sounded more intense. What was his last name again? Brocket. Of course, he should have known that. "It looks pretty nasty so don't pick at it alright? We'll make sure you get patched up once we get back to the station. They must have tons of medical supplies for all the civilians that went there. Just hang on, okay chief?"

Foster nodded and Sam began to rise. He stopped when he felt a hand pulling him back in, a hand that suddenly felt unnervingly cold. Turning around he saw Jacob's fingers and only then did Jake realize he had grabbed hold of the man's pant leg in a vice-like hold. It was so hard to focus, to think right. Those bees buzzing away inside his brain were making things so very difficult.

"There's…something else, Sam." Jacob said heavily, wishing the bees would give it a rest.

"What's wrong, chief?" The younger man asked, the fear flashing in his eyes saying that he already knew the answer. Sam's face dropped a little as Foster exhaled in exertion. Breathing had become difficult as well.

"I think I'm sick." Tubbs replied, his eyes passing over Sam and Kathy. '_Ward. Kathryn Ward.' _"That guy that bit me – back at the barricade – I think he had something. He had to have had something, they all must have."

"That skin disease?" Kathy suggested, swallowing hard. If it really was the mysterious skin disease that had ravaged Raccoon City then Jacob was in big trouble, and he knew it. At least they could fight against the monsters back at the barricade they had no way to combat something only seen through a microscope.

"Yeah." Jacob nodded somberly. "They couldn't figure out how it spread so fast since they had ruled out the idea that it was airborne. I think I found out first hand how the virus gets transferred from person to person. One poor bastard gets infected and bites another and then they bite another and the chain just keeps on going. Fuck, I should have been more careful. I can't believe I was this careless!" Foster leaned his head back against the wall and let out a sharp breath. _'Should have been more careful. Going to end up dead now…or worse, like one of those things out there.' _

"No, Tubbs, it was my fault." Sam said, snapping Foster's eyes open once more, sounding sincerely distraught and sincerely angry with him self. "If I hadn't tripped you wouldn't have had to come back for me. I'm the one that fucked up."

"Forget about it, Sam," Jacob shook his head and smiled ruefully, "doesn't matter who fucked up. The point is that we're in this situation and we're going to have to deal with it one way or the other. We'll see what we can do for me soon enough, first we need to get off the streets. The station is only a few more blocks from here, only another hour or so away…I think an hour…no maybe longer. Sorry, anyways, once we get there we can –"

Foster trailed off in mid-sentence as his radio crackled to life. It spit static for a moment and then a voice, clear and familiar, came over the receiver. "Sergeant Foster? Sergeant Brocket? Damn it, _someone _come in! Is anyone receiving this?"

"This is Sergeant Foster," Jacob said excitedly, stabbing down the button on his radio. "I was starting to wonder what had happened to you, Billy. Damn, I'm glad to hear it's you. We tried calling home but no one picked up the phone."

Police Captain William Brown, whose voice seemed to originate from somewhere in the soles of his shoes, breathed a heavy, relieved sigh. "Thank God it's you, Tubbs. I thought you might have bitten it out there."

"Nice choice of words." Foster mumbled, looking at his ruined hand.

"What's that?"

"Nothing man." Jacob said, looking at Sam and Kathryn he saw newfound hope and energy glowing in their eyes. "Look, we've got big problems. The town is crawling with, and I swear to you I'm not going crazy, zombies. They overwhelmed us at the blockade. They…those things…they killed everyone. They…they fucking ate them Billy!"

"My God…" William replied, his tone shaking and unsteady. "Are you alright, Jake?"

"I'm a little worse for ware," Foster admitted, wiping cold sweat from his forehead, "but I'm alright for the time being. Sergeant Samuel Brocket and Officer Kathryn Ward are with me too. Don't worry they're fine, just a little shaken up. We're all that made it. Billy, listen carefully you need to trust me on this and warn the other barricades about what happened. I know it sounds crazy but – "

"I believe you, Jake." William interrupted, his voice sounding heavy, weighed down with remorse and a torrent of other emotions. "Trust me, I believe you. I've seen what you're talking about. Those things – the zombies – they attacked the station. I didn't know what was going on, it was so surreal. We were totally unprepared. Jake, I…I lost a lot of good people."

"Shit." Sam seethed, clenching his fists as he overheard. Beside him Kathy blinked away her tears and sniffed.

Foster closed his eyes, breathing deeply, trying to keep from breaking down where he sat. None of what had happened was possible none of it was _sane._ People were dying all around him, people who were his friends and co-workers. People he cared about. They were being eaten alive by creatures that could not possibly have existed outside the dreams of a madman and he was powerless to stop the insanity of it all. Looking down at his hand, he also realized the possibility that he might soon become one of the twisted abominations that fed on the living.

"Jake? Jake you there?" William asked frantically, bringing Foster back to reality.

"Yeah, I'm here, sorry. You have to warn the other teams, Billy."

"I wish I could." The police captain sighed heavily. "We lost contact with the other blockades a few hours ago. When these things attacked the station our power went out, we still don't know why, and we lost contact with the other teams. My people just managed to get the back-up generator running but we haven't been able to reach anyone at the other posts. You guys are the first I've talked to."

"Damn it." Jacob cursed, tears stinging the back of his eyes. "This is all wrong, Billy. All of it."

"I know man, I know." William replied, subdued. "How far are you from the station."

"Only a few blocks." Jacob said. "Little over two hours. Maybe."

"Okay, get here as fast as you can, alright? Call back on this frequency if anything goes wrong."

"Okay," Foster replied and started to put the radio down when a sudden thought clutched the sergeant's mind with wild panic. "Wait! William, what about the survivors there? What about my wife? Are they all okay?"

At first William said nothing, silence filtered through the radio. Foster felt his heart tighten painfully, filled now with fear for his wife rather than for himself. Tessa was his everything, the one person he would have sacrificed all he had for. His friend's silence gave him a feeling of such terrible dread that the chubby officer thought he might die of it well before he succumbed to whatever disease might be running through his veins.

"Tessa's fine, Jake." William said in a voice Foster didn't recognize. His tone was low and quiet his voice sounding choked and warped. Somehow Jacob knew the man on the other end was struggling, with great difficulty, to keep from sobbing. "Just get back here fast, alright?"

"We're already moving." Foster said and replaced his radio then turned to face Sam and Kathryn. "Something's wrong."

"_A lot _is wrong, chief." Sam said, nodding his head for emphasis.

"I mean with William," Foster replied, "he's not telling me something."

"What could he be hiding?" Kathy asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I don't know but we'll find out soon enough." Jacob said and felt his heart pick up its pace as a chorus of lifeless moans drew closer from down the street. "Besides, I don't think now is the best time to discuss this. We're almost there, let's get going."

Without another word the trio continued its trek up the street.

-------------------Page Break--------------------

As they ran, Sam took a moment and glanced over at Jacob. His friend's skin was unnaturally pale and coated in a thin blanket of sweat. Sam hoped that it was just a consequence of the lengthy jog but part of him knew better.

_'Hang on, chief.' _He thought, looking back up the street again. _'We'll be out of here in no time. We'll find a helicopter or something and just fly away. We can get you fixed up along the way and before you know it you and me will be chugging back a few brews in a bar somewhere watching the Giants game on TV.' _While these thoughts were comforting and encouraging to the young SWAT trooper, once again part of him knew better.

Author's Note: Here you are my Readers, another installment. Stay tuned for yet another chapter later this week. Also, for those of you reading Come Clean as well I should have the final chapter up later this week as well. Review when you get a chance, it's your feedback that keeps me inspired and writing.


	11. The Journey Underground

**Chapter 10: The Journey Underground**

October 1, 1998

7:50 PM

Sewers of Raccoon City

Rico Da Silva was no fool. He knew that traveling through the streets of Raccoon City, now swarming with human virus carriers and an array of Umbrella's other nasty pets, was as good of an ideas as it was to stick a fork in a light socket. Therefore, he decided if his team could not travel _through _the streets to reach their target then they would have to travel _under _them. While Rico did not particularly enjoy the sights and smells of the Raccoon sewer system it certainly beat the alternative of having to run across a mile of city terrain that was swimming with flesh eating monsters.

"It smells like a pig's arse down here." Mick Murphy commented unhappily.

"Well, get used to it," Rico replied. "We still have a ways to go yet. Sergeant Foller, how much farther?"

The Australian produced a map of the city's sewer systems and a penlight from his rucksack. He traced the thin beam across the route and then clicked the light off. "Another half mile, sir."

The B.O.N.E.S. chopper had dropped the team off a little over a mile from Saint Jude's Hospital any closer, Waters had informed the squad just before take off, and they ran the risk of being spotted. This made little sense to Rico, as he could not even begin to imagine who would be on the look out for an Umbrella aircraft in a city now overrun by the undead.

Rico had briefly considered asking Waters just _whom_ it was they ran the risk of being spotted by but decided against it. Whenever the major dared to ask a question not directly related to his duties it always resulted in the answer that he was on a need-to-know basis and, frankly, he did not need to know. Either way, Major Da Silva had a feeling he would find out what Waters was talking about before the night was through. Unfortunately, he did not find that to be a comforting thought for a reason he was unaware of.

For now, the only thing Rico needed to concern himself with was getting out of the labyrinth that was the Raccoon sewers and into the hospital. The sewers were an underground lair of damp stone tunnels fitted with low ceilings and tepid green-black water that smelled heavily of industrial waste and human excrement. The powerful stench made the soldier wish his gas mask did more to block the odor of whatever foul liquid flowed past his feet. There was the constant noise of dripping water that seemed to emanate from all directions at once. The sound had gone mostly unnoticed at first but after trekking through the sewers for over an hour it was beginning to threaten the patience of the B.O.N.E.S. team leader. Rico knew they wouldn't be able to get out of this place soon enough.

The pungent stench and irritating dripping were bad but most disquieting of all, at least in Rico's opinion, was the darkness. The only light in the chilly tunnel came from the flashlight attachments mounted on each man's weapon. The beams traced over the wet stone walls where nameless fungus and thick slime covered the surface. The lights pushed away shadows at their feet where some unknown substance grew and swept over the river of toxic water running lazily by them, highlighting pieces of human waste. The lights did nothing to push away the major's fears though.

There was a time when Rico Da Silva had outgrown his fear of the dark, a time before he had taken a job with White Umbrella. Ever since his first mission with the company Rico discovered that it was much wiser to be frightened of the dark. Much to his horror, the Latino learned that the childhood monsters he had been so terrified of, monsters he thought would pull him into the black abyss of his closet and devour him if he let his guard down, actually existed. He had seen them with his own eyes, killed many of them and even watched as the abominations stole the lives from two of his teammates.

His boots shuffling across the ground, Rico could feel the sweat of panic break out across his forehead, felt his chest constrict making the flow of air into his as narrow a passage as the sewage tunnel in which he now walked. Rico knew he couldn't freak out now, he had to keep it together, but that was easier said than done. Down in the deep black of the Raccoon sewer system that stank so heavily of urine and death, the major found it hard to control his imagination from thinking about what inhuman creatures could be waiting for him around each corner in the winding maze of stone tunnels.

In his time with Umbrella, Major Da Silva had grown to know a little about the methods used by the company's researchers. Whenever it came time for the scientists to head down to the monster factory and cook up some new harbinger of death and destruction, they did so with a specific purpose in mind. The specimen had to be developed to thrive and fight in a certain type of habitat. For example, the 3K Hunter series had been designed for combat in jungle and forest environments, areas where the terrain would allow them to use their chameleon-like abilities to their full potential.

Rico knew every species White Umbrella had developed to fight underground. Among them were the Arachnid and 121 Hunter series. While he had no personal experience with the Arachnids, something the major was thankful for each passing day, he was well aware of their capabilities.

All manner of stories about the unfortunate soldiers who had fallen prey to the ten-foot spiders abounded at the B.O.N.E.S. facility in New York. Rico had heard tales from other operatives about the poor saps who had fallen victim to the toxin of the creatures or the acidic juices they were said to be able to spit up to distances of fifteen feet. The Arachnids were also described as being able to weave webs so thick and strong that even blowtorches could not cut through them. Da Silva had also been informed, quite recently, that the largest of the Arachnid series, the White Tiger, had been destroyed during the Spencer Estate fiasco.

The worst of Umbrella's playthings that the major had ever come into contact with, in his opinion at least, had been the Hunter 121s. His first, and only, meeting with the mutants had been during an operation in Prague when one of the underground facilities had suffered a containment leak. Luckily, the lab's personnel managed to evacuate before the Hunters could do much damage but it was Rico's job to take his team in and clean up.

To this day he could still remember the cries of his men, as the Hunters seemed to appear from the shadows themselves and attack in all directions. The horror filled screams of his team members drowning out the chatter of automatic fire, their fear surely heightened as round after round hit the springing beasts without effect. Rico had given the order to pull back, to regroup, but only a few had been lucky enough to hear it above the hysterics of the frightened soldiers. Those that did not receive the order to withdraw were cut down by the clawed nightmares moments later. Rico recalled the sounds his men made after the command to retreat had been given even more clearly than their panicked cries.

There was the sickening crack of bone, the wet tearing of flesh. The gruesome splash of spilt blood and the abrupt silence as shrieks of horror turned to pitiful dying gurgles. Reliving the memory made Rico's stomach flip-flop violently, bringing the bile to the back of his throat.

"Major," a cool, monotonous, voice whispered next to the team leader, making him jump.

"What is it Smith?" Rico replied harshly, displeased with how easily the man could sneak up on him. He could have sworn Sergeant Murphy had been standing behind him only moments ago, not Smith.

"There's something else I thought you should be made aware of." Smith said casually as the group edged forward through the blackness.

"Lay it on me."

"Your team has one more objective to complete, major."

"Oh?" Rico said, dropping his voice to a whisper, not wanting the other members of his squad to overhear. _'More secrets, eh Smith? That's just like you.' _"What exactly is that?"

"Technically, it's my objective but I think things might run more smoothly if you and your teammates assist me." Smith said. "What you haven't been made aware of, major is that the government sent in four Army Ranger units this evening to help local police control and contain the residents of Raccoon City. There are forty soldiers in total."

"That's ironic." Rico whispered back. "The government helps finance Umbrella knowing full well how it makes there money and when the corporation makes a mess instead of locking them all in jail, they send in troops to help with the clean up. Well, good fucking luck to 'em, the city is overrun with all of the company's freaks by now. All there going to get is the funeral bill for those boys."

"Chances of the Rangers' survival are actually somewhat good. We estimate that at least a third of their number will last through the night despite Umbrella's…'freaks'"

Rico tensed up, stopped and spun to face Smith. The men behind him all came to an abrupt stop but the major barely noticed. From behind his gas mask he glared at Smith, annoyed beyond words that Umbrella hadn't trusted him enough to accomplish this mission on his own and now further enraged that they were hiding things from him; things that a man like Smith could apparently be trusted to know.

"So what are you saying?" Rico snapped. The man was an interloper he had known it from the start. "That we might just have to deal with the military in addition to whatever else is running around out there?"

"Sir?" Sergeant Petrovsky said with askance.

"Smith and I need to have a quick chat. " Rico replied without looking at the man. "Sven, take point and lead the rest of the team to the exit point. We'll catch up soon."

Nodding, the heavy weapons specialist moved forward with the rest of the B.O.N.E.S. crew in tow. For a minute straight Rico stood glowering at the other man in the dank tunnel. He wished desperately that he could see Smith's face, the man would still be impossible to read no doubt but the major would have felt more like he was talking to a real person instead of the drone that stood before him now.

"Time for answers, Smith." Da Silva said in a no-nonsense tone. "Exactly how the hell do you know all of this?"

"I have privileged information." Was the supervisor's flat response.

"You're going to have to do better than that.

"Actually, _major,_ I don't." Smith replied and this time his voice dripped acid. "Keep in mind that as your supervisor I am really in charge of this operation and you are to follow my orders to the letter. I have already divulged to you several things I was directly ordered not to. So, if I were you, I would thank me whole-heartedly for my generosity."

"You'll have to forgive me if I don't see it that way," Rico paused a moment before adding, "sir."

"Perhaps you will think differently after you listen to the rest of what I have to say to you, major." Smith said but was cut short by the sudden chatter of automatic fire from up the tunnel. There was a short burst from around the corner that echoed throughout the passageway, followed by a sharp hiss and another rapid burst of gunfire. Rico and Smith had already started up the tunnel when Boris Petrovsky shouted.

"Major, hurry up! You should take a look at this!"

Rico and Smith raced around the corner quickly and came to a dead stop when they saw what lay at the feet of the Russian. By no means was the major surprised in fact he had made it his motto to expect nothing. His line of work was all about secrecy and surprise so it was a great deal easier to do his duty when he held no assumptions about the way things were. Nevertheless, as he stood looking down at the _thing _his team had just killed, Da Silva was still impressed at how magnificently imaginative Umbrella researchers became when designing their toys.

"Well there's a handsome fellow." Rico said, gazing down at the creature Boris was pointing a smoking rifle at. To call the thing humanoid felt strange to the major because aside from the two arms and two legs, the resemblance to anything human was non-existent.

The dispatched creature was tall and lean but still well muscled. Its body was covered in glittering blue-green scales that reflected the team's flashlights like some kind of macabre disco ball. Three large holes had punctured its reptilian torso, no doubt the work of Sven Diechter's M-60, sending dark blood coursing down over a pair of legs that ended in a set of webbed feet. The feet were a perfect match for the hands, also webbed, and tipped with bone-white talons. The creature's face, what was left of it after a burst from Sergeant Petrovsky's rifle anyways, was the most peculiar characteristic of all. The features appeared incredibly lizard-like, with a large aqua-marine fin crowing a its skull and a mouth full of pointy yellow teeth. One bulbous yellow eye stood out among the gore covering the left side of its head.

"Are those gills?" Mick Murphy asked in disgust, pointing to slits in the side of the mutant's scaly neck.

"Looks like it to me," Rodney Foller commented, leaning in for a closer look. "Gross."

"It's the Shaigan series." Smith said, crouching down to examine what Rico had begun to think of as the Incredible Lizard Man. "They're the result of crossing infected reptile DNA with human DNA. The researchers used kimono dragon genes for the experiment which gave the Shaigans a nasty little feature."

"I don't even want to know, do I?" Rico sighed, nudging the creature with his foot.

"They're scales secret a deadly nerve toxin." Smith explained casually, as if he were talking about the weather and Da Silva quickly pulled his foot back. "They could kill you just by rubbing up against a piece of exposed skin."

"Let's not get too intimate with them then, okay boys?" said Rico.

"Reptile DNA?" Mick asked. "How do you explain the gills then?"

Smith shrugged, rising to his feet. "Every experiment has side effects. The gills were actually beneficial in this case. It gave the Shaigans the capability to breathe underwater but the Umbrella brass still deemed them a failure and had the project cancelled. All the subjects were destroyed except for three that were kept in storage for study…well two now."

"Doesn't look like they were stored securely enough." Rico commented. "Let's get moving again before Aquaman's relatives come looking for us. Sven, you've got point. Smith and I will take up the rear."

"Care to finish our conversation, major?" Smith said in a hushed whisper as the B.O.N.E.S. team started to move.

"I'm listening." Rico replied plainly.

"As I was saying," Smith began, "the Rangers have been sent in to assist with the quarantine but they know nothing about the effects of the virus or the current state of Raccoon City thanks to the information given to them by Police Chief Brian Irons. Nevertheless we expect that an organized platoon of military personnel would be able to survive the city long enough and potentially discover Umbrella's involvement with the release of the T-virus. Due to the fact that the Rangers will be in contact with higher military personnel the chances of the government discovering what Umbrella is really up to would be very great."

"So what?" Rico said with a shrug. "The White House has known since the start how the company pays the bills."

"Some of the officials do but the majority do not. If all of them were to learn about the existence of White Umbrella the few that are already aware of us would have to act as if they didn't or come under fire as well. Even the President would be unable to protect us."

"What are you saying then?"

"I am saying, major," Smith explained, sounding as if he were speaking to a child, "is that it is detrimental to the survival of the corporation, as well as to our own survival, that the Rangers not find any clues leading them to our doorstop and that if they do that they be rendered incapable of reporting such things back to their command posts."

"What do you want my team to do about that?" Rico snapped irritably. "We _are _a little busy if you haven't noticed."

"I don't need _you _to do anything about it, major." Smith replied as the group rounded another dark corner, entering another dark passage. "We already have a man inside one of the chalks. It is his job to see that the other chalks do not set foot on the streets of Raccoon City and that his own team has an unfortunate accident upon arrival. He was instructed to sabotage his own vehicle then eliminate the other members of his group when the opportunity presented itself. After those objectives are accomplished he is to rendezvous with me at Saint Jude's Hospital and together we will head for the extraction zone."

"Thanks for the scoop," Rico said sarcastically, "but I still don't see where my boy scouts and I come in."

"Upon retrieving the T-variant sample the members of your squad are to assist me in escorting the mole to the extraction point."

"You told me before that you were supposed to do all that alone." Rico said. "Care to tell me why?"

"The mole possesses sensitive information that was to be trusted into my care alone while you and your men secured the virus sample. However, given our past I simply do not trust you enough to let you out of my sight."

"Love you too man." Rico quipped but on the inside he could feel his anxiety building. Despite Smith's "generosity" and seeming willingness to share information Rico suspected his superior was still hiding something. He could almost smell it. What "sensitive information" was this mole holding on to? Rico wondered if this added task would make his life less or more difficult.

_'Who am I kidding?' _The major's mind chided him. _'Of course it will make things more difficult. God forbid I ever experience a streak of good luck for a change.'_

Despite his inner grumbling Rico really did not want much. He would have considered the manhole leading to the surface good enough. The major trudged on through the darkness, sludge swirling about his boots, hoping against hope that Sven would shout, saying he had found the exit. He was starting to get used to the smell of the sewer and, for some reason that bothered Rico deeply.

Author's Note: A new chapter for you, my Readers. I hope you enjoy. Please read and review when you get a chance and stay tuned for a new update soon. Thank you.


	12. The Hunted

**Chapter 11: The Hunted**

October 1, 1998

8:37 PM

Streets of Raccoon City

"You know," Shank said to Slugger who was examining his revolver for what must have been the fifth time since leaving the Lucky Clover, "I could almost enjoy this night – if I had my bike I mean. It's cool out, there's a nice breeze and a rain to wash the sweat from your face. I could almost enjoy this night."

"Yeah," Slugger agreed with a nod, holstering the Smith and Wesson in his coat and pulling out a cigarette instead. "Except for the fact that we're stuck in a city where everyone is going apeshit because of some disease that no one even knows what it is, we just had all our worldly possessions either stolen or _blown up_ and now we're driving through the fucking rain in a stolen truck with one of our buddies laying in the bed all fucked up! Yeah man, I could almost enjoy this night too."

"I don't think," Boomer said weakly from where he lay clutching his side, "that this is…the best time to…get all sentimental boys." He coughed a thin, strained noise and Shank patted his friend's thick shoulder.

"Hang on, dog." He said reassuringly "we'll get you patched up soon."

"Yeah, yeah." The wounded biker replied stifling another cough as Slugger lit the cigarette dangling between his lips. "Just make sure to send a fruit basket to my widow if I don't make it alright?"

"You mean your ex-wife?" Shank said with a grin, wiping rainwater out of his eyes.

"Hey," Boomer replied, managing a small grin of his own, "why do you have to go and attach a label to everything, man?"

Shank laughed, a deep booming sound and eased back, looking up at the sky that mercilessly pounded them with rain. Feeling his own clothes beginning to stick to his skin, the big man noticed that Slugger and Tech were in similar shape. His concern for Boomer began to rise. The crudely bandaged wounds running up his side had to be susceptible to infection and the way he was laying exposed in the back of the truck could not have been helping matters. Without another though Shank pulled off his jacket and draped it across his friend.

"Gee, thanks for…tucking me in mom." Boomer said with a chuckle that quickly became a groan.

"Shut your hole." Shank replied, hugging his arms around his thick body in an attempt to seal out the cold. Now he only had to worry about his arm becoming infected, it seemed a fair enough trade off. "We wouldn't want you to catch pneumonia and cough your fat ass to death."

"Yeah," Boomer conceded, "that'd be…almost as bad as taking ten pounds of shrapnel in your…side."

"We don't want you to do the same either." Slugger said to Shank, leaning over to offer his compatriot a cigarette.

Shank accepted the cigarette as well as a light offered by his friend then inhaled a deep drag, letting the hot smoke fill his lungs and calm his nerves. The truck sped up the rain slick road as the storm continued to assail the streets of Raccoon City. Homes and shops lined the sidewalks, all standing dark and deathly silent; ghosts in a city of madness. Off in the distance Shank could see fires raging, could see thick tufts of smoke rising above the city's rooftops accompanied by the peel of sirens and the ring of gunshots. What had once been a peaceful American community was rapidly dissolving into a full-blown war zone.

As Blaze turned off of Borne and up Royce, nearing the center of the city, Shank noticed a good deal of people wandering the menacing streets. They stumbled about aimlessly, seemingly without care or purpose, as if oblivious to the chaos consuming their city. Shank had been on more than one bender in his day and knew what the after effects where like – these people looked wasted hardcore: bumping into one another, groaning, and stumbling over their own feet. Moaning – in pain or frustration, the biker wasn't certain – they plodded along.

Even with sheets of rain streaming through his long hair and into his eyes the Psycho could make out blood on some of the pedestrians clothes and tears in the fabric. There was a dead look spread across all those pale, grimy faces. The riots had clearly touched these people – their blood stains and tattered clothing was evidence enough – yet they did not seem panicked or frightened in the least, just despondent, maybe in shock.

"What the fuck is wrong with them?" Tech's squeaky, high-pitched, voice said from beside Shank. "Why aren't they running away or screaming or something? Don't they know what's going on?"

"Maybe they're drunk." Slugger said, taking a drag and blowing out a cloud of gray mist. "Maybe they're treating this thing as some kind of party since John Law is a little busy trying to maintain order to keep them from drinking in public and hitting the pipe."

"Maybe it's the virus." Shank suggested absently, watching as a woman in a tattered pair of jeans tripped over a fire hydrant before stumbling on up the street again. "Maybe it disorients you or something, messes up your wiring." He took another long drag on his cigarette, studying the young lady as she continued her slow crawl up the street. _'And maybe we're already infected with whatever these poor fuckers have.' _

"Fuck." Tech spat, running his uninjured hand through his wet hair. "How can we be sure that we don't have whatever the fuck these people do? It must be some serious shit for them to have sealed off the city. How can we be sure we didn't just get it by riding through here? Fuck man."

"Chill out before you work yourself into a conniption fit." Slugger said irritably, taking one last drag before tossing his smoke away. "If we had the damn thing I think we would have showed some sing of it by now, so just stay cool. Just don't touch any of the nuts in this city or lick the hospital floor and you'll be fine."

Tech nodded but did not look at all reassured. Shank certainly didn't feel reassured by Slugger's comments. "I just don't like it is all."

"No one's asking you to like it," Blaze hollered into the back from the driver's seat, "and believe me, none of us do. Now stick a sock in it. I want to be ready for –"

Whatever the Psycho's Inc leader wanted to be ready for was lost amid the sound of squealing tires, flaring headlights and the crunch of metal. Bright lights blinded Shank and his world turned upside down, flinging him through the air like an uprooted tree in a twister. Something hard raced up to catch his body and pain hit the big man like a hammer wherever he had feeling.

With a grunt, the biker managed to lift his head off what took him a moment to recognize as concrete. He felt blood running down his face, could taste its coppery flavor in his mouth. Turning his head from side to side Shank noticed that his leather gloves had saved his hands from injury but his exposed arms were covered in scrapes and brutal lacerations. The fiery liquid of pain coursed through his body anew and the big man groaned, wishing everything would stop spinning.

Eventually it did and the world came back into focus once more. The truck came into view with Blaze slumped over the steering wheel and a dazed looking Shots climbing out of the passenger side door. Slugger lay splayed on his back about five feet from Shank with one hand pressed over his forehead, blood seeping through his fingers. Miraculously Tech and Boomer had not been thrown from the truck bed, the former already leaping over the side with pistol in hand.

After what felt like an eternity Shank managed to regain his feet and discovered what it was that had thrown him about like a rag doll. Embedded in the pick-up's driver side was the cab of a big rig. The two vehicles must have collided as the approached the intersection, the biker realized. Each truck's windshield was destroyed along with one headlight apiece. Glass littered the street. _'He must not have been going too fast or we'd all be decorating the road with our insides now.' _Shank though woozily, stumbling over to the crash site.

"Damn it, boy!" An angry voice called in a thick Southern twang and Shank watched as the big rig's operator hopped out. He was a tall man with a chubby red face, thinning brown hair and a considerable pot belly poking out from a white T-shirt drenched with sweat and rainwater. A pair of fat thumbs were tucked into the straps of red suspenders. "Don't you look where you're going? I coulda killed –"

"You almost did you son of a bitch!" Tech bellowed, spittle flying from his lips as he shoved the barrel of his Glock into the trucker's startled face. "I should plug you right here you fucker!"

"You alright?" Shank asked, helping a groaning Slugger to his feet as Shots grabbed hold of Tech's arm, trying to calm the younger man.

"I've got a mean fucking headache." The former baseball star complained, touching the gash on his forehead and wincing. "I think I'll live though. What hit us?"

"A Mack Truck."

"Shit," Slugger said, steadying himself, "I thought that was only supposed to be used as a metaphor."

"Live and learn," Shank shrugged. "Wait here, I think Tech is about to do something we're all going to regret."

Running around the mangled pick-up truck, Shank could see that a tense situation had indeed sprung up. Tech stood waving his pistol around wildly, spitting out every curse word known to man. Shots attempted to pull at his comrade's shoulders, urging him to calm down but meeting with little success. The trucker danced nervously from foot to foot, trying to maneuver wherever the gun was not pointing and looking scared half to death all the while.

"Put the gun down, Tech." Shank said, stepping in front of his enraged companion. "Don't do something stupid."

"Shut the fuck up Shank!" Tech retorted, trying to aim his weapon around the bigger man. "That piece of crap could have killed all of us, I've got to teach the punk a lesson."

"Calm down, boy!" The trucker said, shielding his face with his hands in a feeble attempt at protection. "It was an accident. Just relax."

"Fuck you, relax!" Tech fired back, his eyes burning with a violent passion.

"Chill out!" Shots said, grabbing for the man' arms but was batted away.

"Fuck off, Shots!" Tech was practically screaming. "Just let me bust on in his kneecap and we'll call it e-"

All fell silent at the sound of a hammer being drawn back, the metallic _click _instantly causing tongues to be held and lips to be shut. Shank looked over shoulder in the direction of the noise and watched as young man – not out of his twenties by the looks of him – climbed out of the big rig's passenger side door holding a snub nosed .38 in one hand wrapped with a bloody bandage.

The young man's blue uniform and glimmering badge marked him as one of Raccoon's finest. The youthful cop's dark skin and bald head were covered with small cuts and beading rainwater. The coat bearing the insignia of the Raccoon Police Department, along with the uniform of the same color, was thickly covered in caked blood and nameless grime. There was a hollow look in the officer's eyes, a slight twitch that pointed to deep-seated instability beneath the surface of this man's features. A very dangerous look indeed.

"Drop the gun." The cop said, leveling his revolver with Tech's brow. His tone was as cold and unforgiving as his eyes. As dangerous as his eyes.

"Fuck you, pig!" Tech shouted, switching his target from the frightened trucker to the stone-faced officer.

"Cripes Tech," Slugger said, limping around the truck to stand beside Shank, "he's a fucking cop. Put your gun down and chill."

"Fuck him, he's just another pig." The weasel-faced biker said, taking a step forward, his weapon unwavering though his tone sounded a little more uncertain than before.

"Put your weapon down." The officer said coolly, his tone and eyes steady. "Put your weapon down or I'll put you down. Your choice."

There was another metallic _click, _this time that of a slide being cocked and once again all conversation ceased. All heads turned to the wreck of the pick-up and there Blaze – a yellow bruise under one eye and a bloody gash above the other – saw with both custom finished Browning HPs pointed squarely at the wounded policeman.

"Looks like you're at a bit of a disadvantage, kid, unless your buddy over there has a piece hidden up his pant leg." The Psycho's Inc commander nodded to the trucker who looked ready to run if only he could decide on a direction. "Shot's get over here and make sure Boomer is okay. Tech, you and the kid put your pieces down now or I'll pop one in both of you."

Tech curled his upper lip and made a short grunting noise but obeyed, lowering his Glock as Shots dashed into the truck to look over Boomer. Only after Tech had put away his weapon did the hollow-eyed officer lower his own. Blaze nodded his approval and holstered his pistols as well.

"Now," he said, "mind telling me who the hell you both are?"

"H-Howard Peterson." The trucker stuttered awkwardly, fixing Tech with a wary eye.

"Eddie Gabbor, with the Raccoon City Police." The officer answered, looking at the Psycho's leader with a great deal of suspicion.

"Good," Blaze nodded, "I wish I could say that it was nice to meet you folks but circumstances would have it otherwise. Where are you headed, shouldn't you be helping your buddies mace crowds and make arrests, Officer Gabbor?"

"I should," the cop replied and Shank was more than a little surprised to see a smile tug at his lips, "but circumstances would have it otherwise."

"We're trying to get to the 24th Precient." Howard said, scratching absently at his considerable gut. "Eddie here said that they have an emergency response station set up there. Since things are what they are I'd say it's one damn big emergency. Eddie says that since the barricades have been overrun all his boys have probably fallen back to HQ to regroup and rearm anyways."

"Overrun?" Shank chimed in, raising an eyebrow. "A bunch of yahoos with shotguns and pipe bombs overran a police blockade? Shit, I thought you guys were better trained than that."

"It wasn't the rioters." Eddie replied, shaking his head and sighing deeply. "It was those…those _things _out there." The officer nodded vaguely towards the empty street behind them.

"What things?" Slugger asked, looking confused as he wiped blood from his eyes.

"You mean you haven't seen them?" It was Officer Gabbor's turn to look puzzled.

"All we've seen are a bunch of two-bit goon squads and thieves." Shank answered with a shrug. "They hurt one of our guys pretty bad. We were on our way to Saint Jude's until you fellas railroaded us."

"Forget about that." Eddie said, shaking his head. "It'll be safer if you come with us to the station. They can help your friend there…not to mention it's probably the only safe place left in this city."

"Go to the cop shop?" Tech sounded incredulous, as if the officer had just suggested the most ludicrous thing in the world. "No fucking way! They'll lock us up with some phony charges – they'll say we helped incite the riot or some shit. You know how pigs are."

"Look," Howard broke in, nervously fingering his suspenders again as his eyes darted up and down the streets uneasily. "Whatever we're gonna do we better do it quick, before those things come back. We can't stay on the streets either, that's a given."

_'No shit.' _Shank thought. _'But what is all this other crap he's babbling about?'_

"What things?" Shank narrowed his eyebrows at the stocky trucker, giving voice to the question in his head. "Wha…"

From overhead there came a feral, piercing, animalistic cry and the biker lost hold of what he had been about to say. The sharp, ear splitting, scream seemed to go on forever, Shank shut his eyes and clamped his hands over his ears against the screech but it did nothing to halt the bestial wail. A moment later another cry echoed the original. And then another.

"What the fuck?" Tech mumbled, turning around as the screams went on, seeming to grow nearer and come from every direction at once.

"Oh God." Howard's voice was tight with panic his stocky body quivering like jelly. "Oh _God! _We have to get out of here _now!_"

Movement to the right caught Shank's eye and he whirled in time to see a dark blur lunge through the rain from the rooftop of a hardware store. The blur – whatever it was – fell twenty feet and landed in their midst with the sure footing of an alley cat – no – the deadly grace of a panther. Shank's head spun to recapture the thing in his field of view and when he did, the big man knew he had to be dreaming. What he saw was too impossible to be real.

_'It looks like a gorilla.' _He thought in a dazed stupor, staggering back a step instinctively. _'A gorilla covered in green scales with a snake's head. A snake's head with red eyes and eight inch claws on each hand. Claws as thick as my thumb and sharp as steel.'_

The nightmarish creature – it _had _to be a nightmare – threw back its reptilian head and unleashed another bone jarring shriek. The men staggered back, clamping hands over their ears, feeling as if their skulls might burst from that terrible bawl. A moment later when they re-opened their eyes all wore the same expressions of fright – of impossible bewilderment – and Shank knew what he was seeing had to be real. All of them could not have imagined the same horrible beast.

"Holy shit." Tech murmured, eyes wide, as the scaly monster spun and locked gazes with a petrified Howard Peterson. The creature made a quick grunting sound before lashing out with one clawed hand. There was an audible slicing sound as its talons cut through the air, reaching for the trucker's throat.

"J-" was as far as Howard got into his sentence before a pair of red lines appeared across his neck. The trucker's eyes widened then rolled backwards, showing white. The red lines traced about the circumference of Howard's throat, leaking blood down over his shirt. Abruptly, and with a sickening snap, his head slid to one side then promptly dropped to the pavement. A moment later the rest of his body fell down beside it.

"Holy _shit!'_ Tech repeated, his face a pale mask of blind panic.

All around the circle of bikers more glass-shattering peels split the night air. From the rooftops the wails went on, hulking, muscular silhouettes outlined in moonlight. The _thing _that had just beheaded Howard Peterson spun and locked its red eyes with Shank's green.

"Ah crap." The big man muttered unaware he had spoken.

Forgetting the Colt in his shoulder holster, Shank reached for a throwing knife tucked into his belt. Reacting on instinct the biker drew and released the blade in the same smooth motion. The knife slide deep into the creature's throat, spilling dark blood down its chest but the beast only threw back its head and let out a gurgling cry. It seemed more annoyed than injured.

Within seconds the dry crack of gunfire filled the air, followed by the inhuman scream of the strange creatures. Shank watched as the mutant with his knife embedded in its throat took another plodding step forward, then began to jerk awkwardly as Blaze emptied his pistols into its broad back. The creature took every round, let out another burbling squeal, and turned to face the Psycho's leader.

"Shit." Blaze muttered, reaching into his jacket for another pair of clips, still seated in front of the steering wheel.

Shank stood frozen for a moment, dumbly watching as the nightmarish beast advanced slowly towards his boss and friend, unable to move a muscle. He felt cool metal against his chest and suddenly remembered his revolver. Once again acting without really thinking, Shank slid the heavy gun out of its holster, cocked the hammer and fired point-blank into the back of the monster's head.

The result was instantaneous. The King Cobra's muzzle flashed and the back of the reptilian skull seemed to erupt. Scales, fragments of bone and bits of gray matter splattered across the pavement in a gory shower. Dark blood running down its back, the creature took one more lurching step then collapsed to its knees and hit the floor in a dead husk.

Shank looked at the thing he had just killed, deaf to the gunshots and shouts echoing around him, watching the rain wash oily blood into the sewer drains. It's talons glistened wet with Howard's blood and the falling rain. It was an impossible looking thing, one that could not and should not exist – except in the mind of a madman perhaps.

_'But it does.' _He thought numbly, unable to pull his gaze away. _'It does. It's a demon – that's what it's got to be. It's Judgment Day in Raccoon City and there's demons out on the hunt for souls.' _

"Shank, look out!" Blaze cried out, slapping in another pair of clips.

Shaken from his thoughts, the big man turned just in time to dodge a clawed swipe that seemed to materialize from the shadows themselves. He stumbled back and nearly fell as another pair of scaled demons leapt into his path, cutting him off from the truck. There was a thunderous report and he saw one of the monsters drop out of the truck bed, its skull opened up by Shot's double-barreled twelve gauge.

The creature falling to the pavement was the last sight Shank had of the pick-up truck and his three other friends. Suddenly he found himself retreating up the street the big rig had come from. Tech and Slugger were at his side along with the black cop, all firing their weapons at the four creatures – the four demons – pursuing them.

"_Get your asses to Saint Jude's Hospital!" _Shank heard Blaze shout from the pick-up and then there came the sound of tires squealing up the street. The light crack of Blaze's pistol and the deep boom of Shot's shotgun fading away into the night.

"They're leaving us!" Tech cried in dismay, firing three more rounds into one of the creature's chests, drawing blood but not slowing it down a step. "They're fucking leaving us!"

"They've got no choice!" Shanks shouted back, sending a .357 bullet through one demon's thick shoulder and knocking it back a step. He was barely able to keep a lid on his own panic, Tech freaking out would be more than he could handle. "Save your breath for running. We need to get out of here now!"

"Know any short cuts off this street, pig?" Slugger asked as he pulled the trigger on his revolver and one of the monster's fell out of line as a .44 magnum round tore through its right eye.

"Follow me." Eddie said coolly – too coolly – before dashing up the street and into an alley wedged between a pair of apartment buildings. Tech clicked empty a second later and took off after the young officer with a curse.

Shank fired once more, grimacing as another reptilian head blew apart in a spray of blood and skull fragments. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Officer Gabbor just entering the alleyway's opening with Tech close behind, running in a mad dash. It wasn't a long distance to the opening but there were still two of those demonic abominations left and Shank was not too keen on turning his back to them to run – even with Slugger covering him.

He leveled the King Cobra with one of the demon's heads and drew back the hammer. Cold metal pressed against his fingertip as he wrapped it around the trigger, ready to fire – and then his target seemed to take flight. With a screech the beast took to the air, its powerful legs closing ten feet of distance in a single bound.

The monster fell on top of the big man with the force of a hammer stroke, sending his shot wide and the Colt skittering across the slick pavement. To his right he heard Slugger give a startled cry that turned to a pained shriek. The creatures shrieked as well – triumphant cries of victory, the biker was sure.

Shank twisted left and right keeping his face away from the demon's gnashing jaws that were lined with rows of yellow daggers and spilled fetid, chemical smelling breath across his face. With one hand wrapped around the creature's throat to keep his face out of reach, Shank used the other to grasp desperately for his boot knife. His heart skipped a beat with relief as he felt the solid weight of the handle slip into his meaty palm.

Foul smelling air filled his nostrils. Frustrated screeches filled his ears. Decaying teeth nipped at his flesh. Shank unsheathed the twelve-inch Bowie knife, driving the blade up to its hilt in the demon's skull and then all was silent.

Grunting in disgust, Shank pushed the heavy carcass off of him and wiped its viscous black blood off on his jeans. Slugger shouted to his right and the big man was on his feet in a second, turning to see his fellow Psycho using one hand to keep the demon's mouth from closing around his head, while he reached for the Smith & Wesson that lay just out of his grip with the other.

Shank climbed to his feet, ignoring the pain in his back and racing up his arms, reaching down to retrieve his own revolver. Taking a moment to aim, the biker lined up the barrel of the .357 with the side of the creature's struggling face. The hammer locked into place and when he pulled the trigger the demon's head seemed to disappear.

"Damn it!" Slugger bellowed indignantly, wiping black fluid from his face as he climbed to his feet. "That's fucking disgusting."

"You alright?" Shank asked, tossing the man his firearm back.

"Yeah, never better." The baseballer replied sarcastically. "I think I twisted my ankle when the bastard leapt on my ass but at least I didn't wind up like Howard back there."

"Hurry up you fatasses!" Tech called from the alleyway, his voice skittish with wild terror. "There are more of those freaks out there!"

As if to confirm the computer wizard's panicked shouts violent, bestial cries began to sound in the darkness of the night sky. A cry that no animal in the world should be capable of making. Shank felt his heart speed up as he caught sight of shadowy figures springing from rooftop to rooftop in the moonlight. Supporting Slugger around the waist, the two darted for what refuge the alleyway had to offer.

_'We're being hunted.' _The sudden realization hit the biker hard and his heart did miss a beat this time. _'It's Judgment Day in Raccoon and they're hunting for souls.' _

On through the darkness and torrent of rain the two men ran, Shank silently urging his friend to pick up the pace.

Author's Note: Here's the next update. I hope you enjoy it so far, my Readers. Please read and review when you get the chance. Your feedback keeps me inspired and writing. Stay tuned for a new update soon. Come Clean is also complete for those of you reading that as well.


	13. Necropolis

**Chapter 12: Necropolis **

October 1, 1998

9:17 PM

Raccoon Towers Apartment Complex, Underground Parking Lot

The elevator announced its arrival with an all too cheery _ping._ The stainless steel doors slid open, allowing darkness and cold, stale air to spill into the shaft. Zeke squinted, trying to pierce the wall of blackness but the wall of shadows in the parking lot proved to thick and complete for human eyes to penetrate.

"Can't be happening. Can't be happening. Can't be happening." The lieutenant glanced over his shoulder and saw that the words belong to Skip. The poor kid sat huddled in one corner of the lift with his knees pulled tight against his quivering chest, repeating the mantra over and over to himself as he shook his head. From the way the young man was rocking himself back and forth Zeke thought that Skip's denial of the events taking place was the only thing keeping the young man sane.

"Looks like the power's out down here too." Scott mumbled, imitating his superior by squinting into the blackness.

"Alright," Zeke said, using the back of his hand to wipe sweat from his forehead, "we're moving out. Fix flashlights to your weapons and keep your ears open. We'll have to walk through there half-blind, not half-deaf."

"You sure the kid's in any shape to show us to his car? Provided it's even where he left it for that matter." Cooper said, nodding to where Skip sat curled up, his wide, fearful eyes not really seeming to see anything anymore.

_'Remembering, that's what he's doing.' _The Ranger thought as he studied the pathetic sight that was Skip Francis. _'Remembering pale, peeling hands reaching for him and how cold they felt against his skin. Remembering a face, ashen and dead, leaning forward bearing broken yellow teeth. Remembering the smell of putrid decay and choking rot as its torn lips opened wider and –'_

"Lieutenant?" Wesley's voice snapped Zeke from his thoughts and he turned to his friend. Wes' face was creased with lines of puzzlement and concern. The lieutenant only shook his head.

"I'm fine." He said simply. "Just get ready to move. I'll talk to the kid. Here' take Rachel for a minute."

Being as gentle as he could, so as not to further aggravate her leg, Zeke handed the pilot over to his subordinate. Rachel did not look good at all he was forced to admit. Her skin was as pale as a sheet of paper and dampened with a cold sweat. Her head lolled to one side and her soft eyes, circled in dark bruises, were clouded with pain.

The lieutenant tried desperately to think of something more he could do for the woman and cursed himself when nothing came to mind. He had bandaged and set her leg but she had refused the painkillers he had offered. Until they got her to a hospital there would be nothing else he could do for the wounded pilot.

_'One thing at a time.' _His mind told him and Zeke paused to draw in a deep breath, letting it quiet his nerves. _'You can't do anything for Rachel now so you'll have to wait. Skip is your problem too but you can do something about him. Focus on what you can do.' _

The lieutenant nodded to himself as he crouched in front of the young man who did not seem to notice him. Zeke knew he was right but it did nothing to improve his feelings. To Lieutenant Wilcott knowing that he could not help Rachel was the same as knowing he had been completely and utterly defeated.

"Hey, Skip?" Zeke said but the young man just continued to rock himself back and forth, muttering statements of disbelief. "Skip?"

"Isn't happening. Can't be happening." The young man repeated, voice breaking, eyes filled with restrained panic.

"Skip."

"Can't be happening."

"Skip!"

"Isn't happening!"

"SKIP!"

Zeke grabbed the younger man by the shoulders and slammed him roughly against the wall of the elevator. Pain and surprise flashed across Skip's visage as the Ranger bellowed into his face. Fearful eyes met with Zeke's razor-sharp ones. The others looked back at the two, astonished to see such a violent outburst from their commander, before going back to their tasks.

"This can't be happening." Skip whined one more time before breaking down in a blubbering mess. Tears streaked through the dirt on his face, his body shook with ferocious sobbing. "Tell me it's not happening!"

"I wish I could kid, I honestly do." Zeke sighed, then gave Skip another rough shake. "But since I can't that means you have to keep it together. My people and I need _your _help to get out of here and you're no good to us crying your eyes out in a filthy elevator. We need you to focus okay? Got that?"

Skip just looked at the Ranger for a moment, eyes misty and red from weeping. Then, sucking in a deep, shuddering breath, he wiped a hand across his eyes and nodded. "Okay. Okay…what do you need me to do?"

Zeke's shoulders sagged with relief as he saw some of the hysteria leave the kid's eyes. The fear was still there but at least the wild panic had ebbed away. The lieutenant had been expecting a great deal more difficulty in calming the young man down and was exceedingly grateful for this small stroke of luck. He had a feeling luck would only come in small doses tonight…good luck anyways.

"I need two things from you." Zeke answered, making sure to keep his voice sold and steady for Skip's sake. "First, I need you to show us where your car is. Second, I need you to tell me everything about this virus and what's happened since the start of the outbreak. Think you can handle all that, Skip?"

"S-sure." The young man said weakly then fixed the lieutenant with a timid smile. "Sure, n-no problem."

"Good." Zeke said with an encouraging smile of his own. "Look kid, I know you're scared and this probably isn't how you figured you're life would turn out but trust me when I say that we all feel the same way. Just stick close to me and my team and you'll be back cruising bars and corrupting the girls in no time, alright?"

Skip managed a small laugh and nodded again. "Don't worry, I won't fall behind…lieutenant."

"Just Zeke will do, Skip." The Ranger said rising to his feet and turning back to face his comrades.

Each Ranger, with the exclusion of Rachel, had fixed the flashlight attachments from their rucksacks onto their weapons. Narrow beams of light cut through the shadows, passing across concrete flooring and support struts that had different letters painted upon them. Few cars remained the only evidence that they had ever been there in the first place was left in the form of oil spots and tire marks.

"What do you drive, Skip?" Zeke asked, affixing his own flashlight attachment to the end of his rifle.

"If it's a Mini or a Beetle I'm going to shoot myself right here." Wesley mumbled, keeping his weapon trained on the emptiness of the parking garage.

"No," Skip said, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's a black Suburban. It should still be in space 4-C, uh, unless the rioters did something to it I mean."

"Alright," Zeke nodded, flicking the safety catch off his weapon. "Coop, Wes and Scott, I want you guys to take point. Ryan, you watch our backs. I'll look after Rachel. Skip, you're our navigator, keep your eyes open and let us know when we've reached the right spot. Everyone stay alert there could be more of those…things down here."

"Got it." Skip whispered hoarsely. "Just keep moving straight. IT should be on the left hand-side."

Wesley gingerly handed the half-conscious Major Parker back to Lieutenant Wilcott and then the Rangers were moving, boots scrapping across the pavement as weapons traced left then right. Rachel slumped heavily against Zeke as the team moved out. Her feet dragged across the parking lot floor and the woman's breathing was shallow enough to cause the lieutenant no small degree of alarm.

"Zeke…" Rachel murmured into his ear as they moved through the darkness. He felt his heart miss a beat at how strained her voice sounded. "Zeke…I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" He replied with genuine surprise, more at her words than how pale she looked when his eyes fell upon her. He certainly had not expected her to feel _sorry _about anything. "What do you have to be sorry for?"

"My leg," she whispered back as they trudged on, "I'm slowing us down."

"No you're not." Zeke said softly, soothingly, into her ear. "Don't worry about it, we're almost out of here. Skip is going to show us his car and then we'll meet up with Captain Haag at the police station and wait for help. I bet they'll have food and medical supplies there – maybe even some hot water to wash with."

Zeke did his best to sound reassuring but Rachel didn't seem to hear him. She just rolled her head to one side and repeated the words "I'm sorry," once more. Tightening his grip around her slender waist Lieutenant Wilcott pressed on, silently urging the woman to stay with him.

"Everything clear behind us, Sergeant Pierce?" Zeke asked over his shoulder and saw the sniper nod.

"All clear, sir." Ryan replied, eyes trained on the shadows as he swept the area with his pistol.

A sudden thought – more of a feeling really – began to worm its way into the lieutenant's mind. He hadn't had time to think about it before but now, with a lull in the seemingly endless chaos, he started to realize something about Tactical Sniper Pierce. Something that set his internal alarm bells ringing.

_'The man is too cool.' _Zeke thought, his eyes looking forward but his mind looking back at Pierce. _'We're beset by hordes of the undead and he's just taking everything in stride. Wesley's wisecracking more than usual so I _know _he's nervous. I can see the fear in Coop's eyes and hear it in Scott's voice but Ryan is hard as stone. We're all sweating like pigs but he's dry as a bone. The man might as well be walking through the park instead of a pitch black garage with God knows what lurking around the corner.' _

Zeke shook his head. Maybe he was being paranoid. He knew that snipers were supposed to have nerves made of steel – kept their hands from shaking and throwing off a shot – but Ryan just seemed…different. It was as if his cool demeanor was less a part of his job and more a part of himself. The lieutenant turned to regard Sergeant Pierce once more when Skip told the group to halt.

"What is it?" Zeke asked quickly, holding the M-4 in one hand while using the other to support Rachel.

"Do you hear that?" Skip asked, his voice quaking as was the hand gripping his flashlight and baseball bat.

"Hear what?" Scott asked from the front of the line, scanning the parking garage with his weapon.

"Listen!" Skip said urgently, sweeping the lot with flashlight but revealing only a lone green station wagon parked in one of the painted spaces off to the right.

I don't…" Zeke started and then trailed off. He heard it too.

It was a bizarre noise, like that of long fingernails being tapped against a tile floor. Whatever the sound was – a steady _click-click – _it was certainly out of place for an underground parking garage. _Click-click. _There it was again, closer, but still seeming to emanate from no particular direction. Even the softest sound echoed in the wide-open space of the underground lot. The noise seemed to come from every direction at once.

"The hell?" Cooper said, sweeping his SAW left and right, sweat beading along his creased forehead.

"Keep moving." Zeke ordered, giving the frightened Skip a gentle prod with his rifle. "Stay together."

The group continued forward, weapons up and eyes searching. As they walked steadily forward through the dark parking area the clicking noises continued, falling silent for a moment only to pick up again. After a minute or so, it sounded to the lieutenant as if another pair of clicking nails had joined the original. Worried faces and startled eyes searched through the blackness and Zeke felt his own heart seize in his breast when Skip gave an excited cry beside him.

"There it is!" The young man exclaimed as his light passed over a strut that was marked with a painted letter C and then across the intimidating form of a black SUV.

"Bloody fuck." Wesley swore with a gasp, fixing Skip with a hard stare. "Keep your voice down. You want to draw whatever's out there right to us?"

"S-sorry." Skip said, dropping his gaze – and voice – while scratching the back of his neck. "I-I'm just surprised no one touched my wheels is all. Sorry."

Wesley looked away, grumbling to himself. "Going to need a change of knickers now. Shouting like a loon."

"I hope you didn't forget your keys, kid." Cooper said, his face drenched with sweat, frantically searching the shadows for the source of the eerie noise. _Click-clack. Click-clack. Click-clack._

"It's getting closer." Scott breathed, the light on his weapon slicing through the darkness but only revealing more concrete posts and empty parking spaces.

_Clickclack, clickclack, clackclack, clickclack. _

"Then let's get the fuck out of here." Skip muttered, racing around to the driver's side door of the Suburban. Tucking the bat under one arm he fished around in his pocket with the other. There was the jingling noise of metal on metal as Skip pulled a set of keys from his jeans – and then the sound of metal sliding across concrete as they tumbled from his hand. "Shit."

"Shit." Zeke repeated, adjusting his hold on Rachel. "Skip, you had better find those keys fast. Everyone else form up, it's coming from the west end!"

The lieutenant saw Skip drop to his belly out of the corner of his eye, cursing as he fumbled around beneath the vehicle. The Rangers formed a tight line, training their weapons on the west end of the lot, revealing only more oil trails and lonely spaces. Even Rachel managed to raise her pistol in a feeble attempt at self-defense. _'Just hang on girl.' _Zeke thought, feeling his heartbeat pick up.

_Clickclackclickclackclickclack! _This time to the east. The Rangers shifted position. _Clickclackclickclackclickclack! _Back to the west, they shifted again. _Clickclackclickclackclickclack! _East again. Then west, then east, then both at once.

"Fuckers are playing with us!" Scott said, the rifle in his hands shaking as much as his voice. "What could be doing that, boss?"

"I don't know," Zeke muttered, voice hardly above a whisper. "And I'd rather not find out. Hurry up, Skip!"

_Clickclackclickclackclickclack._

_'Why the hell can't we see it!' _Zeke's mind screamed.

"I'm hurrying!" Skip cried from beneath the SUV. "Just relax – I mean – uh – you know, hang in there. Wait! Almost…ha! Got 'em!"

Following the young man's triumphant cry was the familiar jingle of keys rattling against one another. At that moment Zeke couldn't think of a sweeter sound. Within moment's Skip had the driver side door unlocked and was climbing inside, hitting a switch on the door and releasing the others locks to his vehicle.

The team hastily climbed into the relative safety of the Suburban, Zeke laid a mumbling Rachel Parker out in the back before hopping into the passenger seat next to Skip. Ryan and Scott pulled themselves in on either side of the pilot, quickly slamming their doors shut and pushing the locks back into place. Cooper, along with his bulky SAW stretched out in what served as the Suburban's cargo space.

"What the hell was making that noise, Zeke?" Skip asked in a quivering tone, wiping away sweat with his shirt-sleeve before jamming a key into the ignition.

"I d – " Was as far as the lieutenant got before he discovered the source of the noise and why they hadn't been able to see it. What he saw made the Ranger feel as if he had somehow become inexplicably lost on the set of an old monster movie.

A dark blur fell from the ceiling, seeming to be born of the darkness itself and landed on the hood of the SUV with a heavy _thud _that sent a jolt through everyone. The blur slowly took on shape, its figure stretching out to reveal a body of crimson, glistening muscle sinew. Its head was the size of a man's but the gray matter of its brain was exposed and the lipless mouth framed rows of sharp, bone-white teeth. Hollow pits where the eyes should have been starred back at Lieutenant Wilcott through the windshield. Seven-inch claws dug into the Suburban's hood, cutting through the sheet metal as if it were cardboard.

"Holy – " Skip began, regarding the monstrous thing with disbelief, but was cut short when the creature unfurled its tongue – a foot long tongue – in the air and uttered a dry raspy hiss. A second later, with a lightning quick move, the dripping tongue came down hard enough to send spidery cracks along the windshield's surface.

"Go! Go!" Zeke bellowed even as the young man turned the key in the ignition, bringing the great metallic beast to life.

The Suburban's headlights snapped on and with one, grasping hand a terrified looking Skip Francis managed to not only find the gearshift but move it into reverse as well. One sneakered foot found the gas pedal and the SUV lurched backward, tires squealing. The squeal was outmatched by that of the creature as it gave a startled, confused and piercing shriek, obviously not pleased that its prey was trying to get away. The horrible, skinned _thing _dug in its claws to avoid being thrown off as Skip spun the vehicle in a wide arc before tearing down the center of the parking garage.

"Not hitchhikers!" Zeke hollered at the monster, bringing his rifle up. The beast could only hiss in retaliation before a hail of bullets punched through the window, then tore through its body. The monster screamed its ear-splitting trill once more as Zeke emptied a clip into his body. The shriek was so loud that the Ranger could not hear the bark of his own weapon above it. Blood splattered the front of Skip's car, along with bits of glass and glistening red skin. With a final scream of defiance the skinned mutant lost its grip and tumbled off the hood. Another jolt shook the car and its occupants as the creature passed beneath the wheels.

"Fuck!" Skip cursed, knuckles white on the steering wheel.

"Coop," Zeke shouted into the back as he changed magazines, ignoring the kid for the moment. "Get stretched out in the back with that 249! If anymore of those fuckers are chasing us turn them into dog food!"

"You got it, lieutenant!" The big man replied.

The SUV rocked violently, stirring a startled gasp from an almost comatose Major Parker as something heavy landed on the roof with enough force to put a thick dent in the metal. Rachel's gasp turned into a scream as a pair of dagger-like claws rent through the roof, peeling the metal back as if it were the lid on a soup can.

"It's raining these things!" Wesley cried before his rifled drowned out his voice and the shouts of the others. Bullets tore through the top of the Suburban, drawing an outraged screech from above.

"There's the exit!" Skip cried excitedly, pressing a finger against the windshield as Scott's rifle joined the clatter of the Brits. "We're – oh shit."

Zeke's head snapped up from reloading his weapon at the sound of Skip's less than encouraging words. He could see light spilling into the parking area as the kid tore up the ramp at dangerous speeds, the silver glow of moonlight illuminating a metallic gate. A gate that was only halfway up.

"I'm out!" Wes cried from the back, groping his vest for another clip.

"Me too!" Scott shouted, then promptly ducked as the claws tore through the roof above his head, peeling back more strands of painted metal and leaving a ringing sound in the lieutenant's already throbbing ears.

"Damn it." Skip seethed and Zeke saw his foot moving to the break.

"No!" The Ranger cried, stomping down on the kid's foot to keep it on the accelerator. "Gun it, I just hope everyone's feeling short today."

Skip nodded, knuckles white on the wheel, face a mask of grim resolve, as he bit into his lower lip. In the backseat Zeke could hear Ryan and Rachel firing into the roof with their side arms as Wes and Scott scrambled to reload. The gate came closer, a half-open maw seeking to devour them with teeth of steel.

"Brace yourselves!" Zeke shouted then followed his own advice, ducking his head low and covering it with his arms.

Wesley had just enough time to secure his chin strap and mutter the word "Fuck" before everything was lost in a hail of sparks, the crunch of metal, shatter of glass and a brain scrambling shriek from overhead. The last noise was a dull _thump _as something heavy was knocked off the roof of Skip's Suburban. Then it was over. The night surrounded them cool air rushing in through cracks in the windshield and a gaping hole where the roof had been turned up like a pop can lid. Empty road lay in front of the group and they were free.

Skip's face was wide. He looked shocked for a moment then chortled incredulously, his laughter near the point of mania. "We're alive! I don't believe it, I don't _fucking _believe it!"

A firm hand gripped Zeke's shoulder and a friendly voice chuckled merrily into his ear. "Way to improve, boss." Wesley chuckled. "I almost feel sorry for the poor bugger…whatever it was."

"You're about to get a good look at 'em, Wes." Joe reported, stretched out in the back, the chatter of his machine gun washing away the group's dumfounded grins. "Five more of those freaks coming up on our six, boss."

_'I wish they'd stop calling me that.' _Zeke thought irritably but he was already handing out orders. "Step on it Skip! Ryan, get back there and give Coop a hand. Scott, watch Rachel. Wes, you're with me."

Skip pushed harder on the gas, eyes focused on the road ahead. Ryan unslung his rifle, climbing over the seat next to Joe Cooper. Zeke and Wesley hastily scrambled up through the makeshift sunroof, keeping their boots squared on the seats as best they could.

The skinned abominations had been horrifying enough dropping from the ceiling but Zeke found watching them give chase far more disturbing. They scuttled forward at incredible speeds, easily keeping pace with the racing Suburban, their thick claws digging up the pavement. Their hideous tongues lashed out at the empty space between them and the speeding vehicle, like whips reaching for a running slave. The bizarre, raspy hiss that rose from the creature's throats pursued the group on through the night as they scuttled forward.

_'Scuttlers.' _The name forming in Zeke's mind all of its own accord. _'That's what they are, Scuttlers.'_

The heavy rounds of Cooper's SAW succeeded in keeping the Scuttlers at bay better than it did at doing any actual harm to them. The 7.62mm bullets eating up the road in front of the creatures, forcing them to leap and scramble out of harm's way with astounding agility. Every now and then one of the Scuttlers would step too slowly and one of Coop's shots would tear a chunk of slimy sinew from its body though. Frustrated, the monsters would only unleash their piercing trill and come on even faster.

"What are we doing up here, Zeke?" Wesley had to shout to be heard above the rushing of the wind and the chatter of Cooper's weapon. "Enjoying the night breeze?"

"Shut up, Wes and that's an order!" Zeke demanded, pulling one of his remaining anti-personnel grenades from his vest. "When we gain enough ground on these suckers I plan on blow them to the moon."

"Smashing." Wesley replied with a grin, unclipping one of his own grenades and slipping a finger through the ring.

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The Suburban sped on, Skip doing everything in his power to push the limits of his vehicle and watch for obstacles at the same time. One of the monsters suddenly lunged, its powerful legs propelling it towards the roof. Cooper stopped firing and quickly adjusted his aim, sending a hail of NATO rounds through the mutant's torso, ripping the beast in half. With a disgusting wet _plop _the two bloody halves fell back to the ground.

"Gross." Coop muttered to himself, preparing to slide another ammo belt into his weapon.

The corporal's eyes and ears picked up at the sound of another piercing, feral cry. Another of the horrible, crawling nightmares took to the air, this time vaulting itself towards the big man himself. _'Oh shit.' _A mouth that seemed to be all teeth reared up in front of him, so close that Joe could see down the black abyss of its throat. Then the black turned red and the creature fell away, hitting the street in a bloody heap, the exposed matter of its brain scattered across the pavement.

Joe turned his head to the left to see a stone-faced Sergeant Pierce reaching into a pocket in his vest for more ammunition. "Thanks," Coop told the sniper, feeling his heart start to beat again.

"Forget about it." Ryan said, working the bolt and setting the rifle's stock against his shoulder once more. "Hear come more of them."

"I should have been a fucking postman." Cooper grumbled and opened up with his SAW again.

----------------------------------------- Page Break-------------------------------------

_'Damn, he's good.' _Zeke though, watching as the three remaining Scuttlers crawled over the one Pierce had just dispatched to continue the chase. Then he saw his opportunity as a side street came into view.

"There!" Zeke yelled at Skip, ducking into the vehicle and pointing. "Punch it over there!"

"You got it!" Skip replied and pulled the wheel hard to the right, so hard that the Ranger nearly lost his footing.

Lieutenant Wilcott poked his head back out into the night, holding the grenade tight in his fist. The Scuttlers drew closer but then started to lose ground as the Suburban completed its sharp right turn. They hissed and slapped their tongues at empty space, scrambling over one another to compensate for the change in direction. Zeke pulled the pin free.

"Now, Wes!"

Together the two Rangers hurled their explosives through the air. The grenades hit the pavement with only the slightest sound, landing a couple feet in front of the racing Scuttlers. High, piercing cries split the night air only to be silenced a moment later by a deafening blast, a column of fire banishing the darkness. Zeke and Wesley dropped back into the Suburban as debris and Scuttler pieces began raining down in a gory shower.

"Well, kid," Wesley laughed, jovially slapping Skip on the shoulder from his place in the back, "I hope you enjoy your new convertible because it certainly comes in handy."

"That was some fancy work with the wheel." Scott added with an encouraging grin.

"Thanks." Skip said, the excitement draining from his face as the adrenaline rush wore off. Zeke though for a moment the kid might lean over and puke until he flashed the lieutenant a wide smile. "Think this thing will help me pick up those girls anymore easily now, Zeke?"

Zeke managed a short chuckle. "I'd almost guarantee it, kid. What girl doesn't like a guy who can put the top down on a sunny day?"

"Not me," Rachel's soft voice filtered in from the back, "that's for sure."

Lieutenant Wilcott spun in his seat, turning to face a smiling Rachel Parker. The smile was the slightest tugging at the corners of her lips but it was a definite improvement from her near comatose condition moments ago. Her face was still pale and damp with sweat but at least she was awake and lucid.

"Hey," Zeke said as softly as he could without sounding too unprofessional. "How are you feeling?"

"Shitty but hanging in there." Rachel shrugged then her smile grew wider. "Nothing a hot bath and some cheese cake won't cure – oh and maybe a cast for my leg while you're at it."

Zeke laughed, a genuine, relieved laugh. "I'll see what I can do, major." He smiled at her and she smirked back. "Just hang on for a little while longer, you hear?"

"I'll see what I can do, lieutenant." Rachel chuckled.

"Damn," Cooper muttered in the back, drawing the glances of both the pilot and the lieutenant. "They're everywhere man, _everywhere._"

Zeke twisted his neck to the right and peered out the window. It took him only a second to notice what the corporal was referring to. The shambling figures in tattered, bloodstained clothes were hard to miss after all, stumbling up the road drunkenly bumping into one another without care. Their hollow, hungry moans hung on the night air as they paced about looking for fresh meat.

The horror of Raccoon City was made complete by the light of fires in the distance, blackened storefront windows and abandoned vehicles littering the streets like a child's toys. Trails of blood were streaked across the sidewalks and the doors of homes that stood dark and lonesome.

_'I wonder if they're already dead.' _Zeke though absently as the homes and apartment buildings rolled by, losing track of time. _'Maybe they aren't. Maybe they're just hiding inside and waiting for help…or death.' _The lieutenant shook his head, reminding himself that he could not think like that. He had to focus on what he could control.

"Necropolis." Zeke gave a start when he heard Pierce speak. The man was simply too quiet that it was so easy to forget he was even there. Too quiet and too cool.

"What's that?" Lieutenant Wilcott asked the sniper who saw slumped against one wall of the Suburban with his rifle cradled in his arms.

"Necropolis." Sergeant Pierce repeated, his face a hunk of granite as Scott gave Skip directions to the police station. "It's a Greek word, means 'city of the dead' and that's sure what this place is."

Zeke nodded uncomfortably then turned to face Skip. "Kid, what can you tell me about what happened in this city?"

Skip shot the Ranger a quick glance before turning his eyes back to the road. "Uh, well, that's kind of a long story. Where would you like me to start?"

"At the beginning preferably," Zeke said. "Tell me everything that went on in town after they reported the outbreak."

"Alright, but I don't know if I can tell you guys a whole lot you don't already know." The young man said, easing up on the gas.

"Trust me," Wesley scoffed, "you might be surprised how much we don't know."

"Alright," Skip replied, "so basically a few weeks ago people started getting real sick, looked like they were coming down with a bad case of the flu or something. They got high fevers, headaches, nausea, all that stuff but no one really thought much of it at that time because, I mean shit, people come down with the flu all the time. Even the couple living in the apartment across from me came down with it and I didn't give it a second thought." Skip paused to turn up a side street, narrowly missing a chubby man in a pair of torn jeans. "So whatever but then we all start hearing these reports on the TV and over the radio that the disease makes you nuts. Apparently some hospital staff and relatives taking care of the sick got attacked by their patients – bitten is what I heard. So everyone started getting spooked and anyone with flu like symptoms had to report to the nearest ER. Wasn't long after that that health officials said it was Marburg."

"Cripes." Wesley breathed and Scott shook his head.

"Yeah," Skip continued, "but that wasn't the worst of it. First they freaked everyone out by saying it was Marburg but then they make _another _announcement saying that it's _not _Marburg but some kind of weird skin disease and they've got no idea what it is. Everyone around here just started calling it Raccoon Syndrome."

"Great," Zeke breathed, "so first they scare everyone by saying they know what it is and then they confuse everyone by saying they don't."

"Yep." Skip said, making another turn past a flaming station wagon. "The city became a powder keg after that, no one wanted to so much as step outside to pick up the morning paper. More people got suck and even more started to get antsy. Then the boys in blue set up their road blocks and the mayor told everyone they had to stay in the city, couldn't spread the contamination to other areas or some such."

"I guess folks around here didn't take to kindly to that, huh?" Scott asked, examining the M-4 in his lap.

"Better believe it." The young man nodded. "Everyone who wasn't sick went batshit anyways and started to riot. Almost everyone still living in my building had left by then, trying to make some last ditch effort to get out of town. In retrospect…I probably should have joined them."

"Don't think like that, kid." Zeke told the younger man. "The precient isn't far and you've done a good job keeping it together so far. Just keep on doing what you're doing and we'll be out of this nightmare before you know it."

Skip looked less than convinced but nodded grimly and focused on the road. Zeke was about to ask the kid if there was anything else he could tell them when Rachel suddenly grabbed hold of his shoulder and shouted into his ear: "Zeke, look out!"

Unfortunately, the lieutenant was not to be accorded such a luxury as a moment after Rachel's cry of alarm a resounding crash turned him inside out. At least, that's certainly what it felt like. Everything became a wild, dancing blur as something heavy connected with the front end of Skip's vehicle on the right side. All sound was lost, save the crunch of metal and the shatter of glass.

Then, just as quickly as it had begun Zeke's spiraling, twirling vision took on order again and he found himself starring down at the dashboard. There was a terrible, fiery ache in the lieutenant's forehead that made him oddly sleepy and when he pulled his fingers away they were damp with blood. Groaning, Zeke surveyed the inside of the Suburban, hoping that no one had fared worse than he.

Skip was slumped over the steering wheel, moaning as well, his upper lip bleeding profusely but otherwise looking aware and intact. Rachel sat in the back grimacing as she rubbed a shoulder the lieutenant assumed had collided roughly with the back of his seat. Scott shook his head, shards of glass littering the floor as he pulled away from the shattered window. The radio operator cringed as he saw how thoroughly destroyed the window was, his helmet absorbing the blow that would have split his skull open like a ripe melon.

"Bloody hell." Wesley grumbled from his upside down position on the floor, feet thrown up over the headrest of the driver's seat.

Cooper and Ryan appeared to have escaped the collision unscathed, bracing themselves against the sides of the Suburban's cargo space. The sniper rubbed the back of his neck irritably while rising to a sitting position. The corporal looked far more disturbed as he pointed frantically through the side window. Eyes wide as saucers, Cooper's mouth simply fluttered for a moment before any speech followed the movements.

"L-lieutenant!" Was all the big man could manage, gesturing with fervor to the side of the vehicle.

Judging by the corporal's expression whatever had thrown them off course was bad, so when Zeke turned his head to look he prepared himself to see the worst. When his eyes fell across the hulking creature – an eight foot tall mass of rippling muscle bare to the waist where a tattered leather skirt hung, moonlight glittering off the knives it had for fingers – Zeke realized he had not prepared himself quite as well as he though. Pushing Skip towards the mangled remains of the driver's side door Zeke kept his feverish brown eyes locked on the behemoth's flaming yellow ones.

"Everybody out of the car!" Zeke ordered, not caring how panicked his voice sounded. "Everybody out _now!_"

Skip took one look at the gargantuan standing silently watching them from the other side of his Suburban and scrambled out through what was left of the door on his side. Miraculously – to the lieutenant anyways – the kid managed to keep the presence of mind to grab the baseball bat he had stashed under his seat before crawling away. The other Rangers piled out after him, Wesley grumbling as he tried to straighten himself out in the back before rolling out into the streets. His expression quickly changed from one of annoyance to one of blind terror as he caught sight of the group's attacker.

"Bloody hell." The Brit repeated breathlessly.

"Everyone on this side! From a line!" Zeke ordered, absently pushing Rachel to the back of the formation where she laid a hand on his back to stay upright.

The colossal beast, another nameless terror of the insanity that was Raccoon City, advanced forward a step, its heavy footfall seeming to shake the Earth to its core. As the monster advanced it opened its mouth – a cavernous maw lined with yellow razors of teeth that dropped to its chest – and bellowed a deep, warbling challenge. Its feet shook the night. Its voice shook the air.

Fear gripped hold of Zeke as that inhuman roar obliterated any sense of reason he had. The lieutenant simply starred with wide, frantic eyes as the giant took another step closer, the disfigured Suburban barring its path now. Somewhere in the sea of ice that surrounded the Ranger's mind, making it impossible to do anything but stare, a lone thought managed to break through. _'The head.' _The hole the single though made in the ice gave room for more to pass through. _'It's worked on all the other things running around in this nightmare. Shoot it in the head.' _

"Sergeant Pierce!" Zeke called, bringing his rifle up. The ground swayed as the behemoth took another step.

"Yes sir!" The sniper was positioned in a crouch on the ground, one eye closed as he peered through the scope of his weapon.

"Drop the bastard!" The lieutenant cried.

Ryan needed no further instruction. Taking the briefest of moments to aim the Remington flashed and the walking mass of muscles and claws staggered. The heavy round passed clean through the monster's skull and out the back in a gruesome explosion of black, viscous blood. The giant swayed for a moment – then continued forward. Then another. And another.

Fresh sweat broke out across the lieutenant's face as a thick, purple fluid began to fill in the gaping hole that stood in the center of the creature's forehead. The icy hands of panic groped for Zeke again but he fought them off. The need to think becoming ever more urgent as the giant took another lurching step towards the Suburban.

_'The Suburban!' _The thought hit Zeke like a falling piano. New hope suddenly stirred in his heart.

"Ryan, do you think you can hit the gas tank on Skip's ride?"

"Better believe it." Pierce answered his superior, working the bolt on his rifle.

"Grenades!" Zeke shouted, lowering his M-4 and unclipping the last anti-personnel grenade from his belt. "Get them inside the Suburban!"

The Rangers lowered their weapons and reached for the explosives at their belts. The giant took another step, its soulless roar turning Zeke's knees to jelly. The soldier's unclipped their hand grenades, yanking the pins free. Another step.

"Get that rifle ready after you throw, Pierce." Zeke said and saw Ryan nod. "Now!"

Altogether the line of men lobbed their explosives through the shattered windows of the crippled Suburban. The behemoth took another plodding step forward and then leapt five feet in the air, coming to an abrupt halt as its booted feet crashed through the vehicle's shredded roof. Unhinging its jaw, the beast bellowed again, its cry splitting the night.

_'Come on,' _Zeke thought, watching with horror as the giant continued to roar, its jaw hanging open in a surreal fashion. _'Come on. One, two, th – '_

The explosion silenced not only the lieutenant's thoughts but the creature's hellish cry as well. The grenades detonated at almost in sync, sending a fireball five feet into the air and causing the Suburban to jump off the pavement. The giant's defiant growl turned to a scream of pain as the flames consumed its twisted scarred body. Zeke raised a hand to shield his eyes from the blaze and turned to the sniper crouched at his side.

"Do it, Pierce!" He ordered and Ryan's rifle made its report instantly.

The second explosion was even more devastating than the first as the already burning Suburban erupted in flames once more. The behemoth was thrown to the ground, its bellow cut short. It lay on the pavement, wrapped in fire, smoldering.

Zeke watched, mesmerized for a moment, fully expecting the clawed giant to get back up and slice them all to ribbons. It did no such thing though it simply lay upon its back in the middle of the street. Lay there burning. Hollow, lifeless wails drifted to the Ranger's ears from the distance and ragged, drunken looking figures began to stumble into view from down the street.

"The fire must have attracted them." Rachel said from behind Zeke, changing the clip in her Colt.

"Let's not stick around to say hello then." Lieutenant Wilcott replied, wrapping a supportive arm around the pilot's waist. "Scott, how far are we from the station?"

"N-not far." The radioman stammered his wide eyes fixated on the smoking giant. "Just up this street and around the corner. Come on."

Hefting his rifle Sergeant Owens led the way up the street. Zeke and the others followed after, Rachel hobbling as fast as she could and Skip gripping his bat so hard the lieutenant thought it might break in half.

_'What the hell is going on in this city?' _Zeke thought as he ran. _'Zombies. Scuttlers. The Less Than Jolly Brown Giant. Give me a break. What _is _going on in this place?'_

Zeke continued after Scott, trying to think of an answer to his question. He didn't have one at the moment but he was sure that he would find out soon. The lieutenant was also sure, quite sure, that he would not like the answers he found.

Author's Note: Here's the new update my Readers. I hope you enjoy. Please read and review when you get a chance.


	14. Last Bastion

**Chapter 13: Last Bastion**

October 1, 1998

10:30 PM

Beckersville Avenue

"Hold up, Sam." Foster said, voice thin and strained, leaning heavily against his second in command.

"Are you going to be sick again, chief?" The younger man asked, gently lowering his friend so that he was propped up against the wall of the alleyway they had been running through.

"Nah," Jacob replied, a meager grin splitting his pale, sweating face. "Just need to catch my breath is all. I'll be fine in a minute."

Sam nodded but seriously doubted the statement. Tubbs Foster was miles away from fine by the looks of him. The squat sergeant's face was taut and ashen gray, as if all the blood had been let out, leaving it pale and hollow. Jacob's skin was clammy and deathly cold, Sam was beginning to think that the man's blood _had _been let out and replaced with ice water instead. Sweat beaded down Foster's face and the fact that since receiving William's transmission he had thrown up twice only further aggravated Sam's concerns about his boss' condition.

_'I should have just taken the shot when I had the chance.' _Sergeant Brocket clenched his fists together in frustration, replaying the scene at the west barricade through his head. He watched through his mind's eye as the rotting, ghastly figure wrestled with Jacob on the pavement. The sound of Jacob's voice telling him to shoot – _pleading _with him to shoot – raging louder in the trooper's ears than the screams of his comrades as the undead monsters overwhelmed their numbers. Then came the sickening crunch as the man sunk his teeth into Foster's hand and ripped loose a dark-colored piece of flesh.

"I should have just shot the bastard then and there." Sam mumbled as he turned away from Jacob. Looking at the man he had once thought indestructible in such an ill-begotten state instilled the younger man with such fear that it turned his belly to ice. Sam Brocket had experienced enough fear for one night without having to watch his friend slip away into the ranks of the undead, thank you very much.

_'Even if I had missed and hit Tubbs instead,' _the trooper though solemnly, pressing his head and hands against the brick wall in front of him, unaware of Kathy as she came up beside him and laid a hand across his shoulder, _'it _still _would have been better than letting him turn into one of those…those _zombies_! God, the way things are going I'm probably going to have to shoot him anyways. How much longer does he have? How much longer before I have to take his weapon away, before it's not safe for us to be anywhere near him?' _

Forcing the unpleasant thoughts from his mind, Sam shook his head. He knew he should not be thinking that way but he was tired and cold and…scared. Now that was a funny revelation to have. There had been a time when Samuel Brocket pretended there wasn't a thing on God's green earth that frightened him one bit.

"Not after tonight though." Sam muttered to himself, starring off into the empty street. How much longer would it stay empty? How much longer until those things found them again? "Not after tonight."

"Hey," Kath's voice next to him snapped the trooper from his reverie, "you aren't falling apart on me too are you?"

"I'm sorry." Sam replied, leaning against the wall and shutting his eyes for a moment, sucking in a deep breath of the frigid air. When he opened his lids again the young man turned his head to where Jacob rested at the other end of the alleyway, his chest struggling to rise and fall with each new breath. "I – what happened, it's my fault."

"You raised the dead?" Kathryn asked and Sam was stunned to see her smile. "You brought them back to life and ordered them to eat the flesh of the living? I've known you a long time, Sam, and I know for a fact that you're no voodoo witch doctor so I highly doubt that any of this is your fault."

Sam knew that she was only trying to lighten things up, trying to get him to relax, but he still found himself becoming angry with the young officer. "How can you crack jokes at a time like this, Kathy?" Sam rasped, his tone coming out much harsher than he intended. "Our friends died back there! They were eaten alive for the love of God and now Foster…Foster's going…"

Samuel fought to force his tongue to form the words he dreaded to speak but his efforts were in vain. He couldn't say it, simply couldn't. The idea of Jacob Foster, always so friendly and generous, turning into a soulless horror whose only desire in life was to feast on warm, human entrails was unfathomable.

"I should have just shot the bastard." Sam said, repeating the words for Kathryn's ears this time. "I froze up though, I've _never _done that before, _never_! Whatever happens next is because I hesitated, I should have just reacted."

"Sam," Kathy said tentatively, gripping his shoulder more firmly and forcing him to meet her unwavering gaze. "What happened tonight was _not _your fault, okay? I know you're scared – I am too, scared shitless in fact – but now is not the time to play the blame game. If you're going around feeling all guilty then you're not going to be able to focus and that means you'll only make more mistakes. Now, I can't do this alone, I need you to help me."

"What about Tubb-" Sergeant Brocket started to protest but the younger officer cut him off with a sharp gesture and a pointed look.

"Jacob is going to be _okay." _Kathryn said. "We won't let anything happen to him, right?"

Sam faltered for a moment, his gaze torn between Officer Ward and the sickly form of Sergeant Foster. He looked at one and then the other before Kathy's eyes grabbed hold of his and refused to let go.

Those deep emerald eyes were as hard and unshakable as granite. Calmness and rationality existed in those green pools things Sam though had been swallowed up by the insanity of Raccoon City. Slowly, looking into those steady eyes, Sam felt logical thought return.

Shaking his head, the trooper sighed and sagged his tense shoulders. "I'm sorry Kathy, I didn't mean to freak out like that, this just hasn't been a typical day at the office."

"You can say that again." Kathryn smiled timidly and even managed a short laugh. With a great deal of effort Sam managed to do likewise.

"You know…" He trailed off, forgetting what he had been about to say as the sound of footsteps caught his ear.

They were soft, shuffling noises, the sound of sneakers sliding across wet pavement. The footfalls sounded uncertain to Sam's trained ears, as if whoever was approaching them from the entrance to the alley was lost or confused. Or sick.

_'Sick with whatever those things back at the barricade had.' _The trooper thought, sweat beading on his forehead as he unholstered his pistol and aimed in the direction of the footsteps emanated from. Kathy raised Foster's sidearm, pointing in the direction Sam gestured towards. _'Sick with the disease that turned everyone in this city into a rotting cannibal. Sick…sick like Tubbs is going to be.'_

Moments grew into seconds, seconds grew into minutes. The light, shuffling, wavering footsteps grew closer and a new sound came with them. Harsh, uneven breathing accompanied the footfalls now. Did the zombies that had attacked the blockade _breathe_? Sam couldn't remember, it felt as if someone had taken an egg whisk to his thoughts, scrambling them and make it difficult to concentrate on anything in the swirling torrent of his mind.

Samuel could feel the tension radiating off Kathy to his right. Her eyes were wide and unblinking, shoulders taut and rigid. The H&K trembled ever so slightly in her hands. Just as he thought the suspense of the situation was going to kill him before anything else got a chance, Sergeant Brocket caught his first glance of whoever had been stumbling towards them.

A sneaker, tattered and wet, poked cautiously around the corner. A moment later a pair of legs came into view, concealed by a pair of blue jeans marred by splotches of grime and blood. The legs led up to a slender torso, clad in a black hoodie that seemed stuck to the shoulders of a rather young looking man. It was the young man's face that made Sam take his finger off the trigger.

Healthy color flushed the youngster's face, the warm blood in his veins painting the skin of his cheeks bright red. Samuel could still remember the dead, empty eyes of the creature's that had overrun the police blockade but the look in this young man's brown eyes was one of alertness – and apprehension. Sam saw a great deal of terror and anxiety in those red-rimmed eyes. A second later Sam took in the baseball bat the stranger was gripping forcefully in one hand and knew he was looking upon one of the living. The SWAT trooper sincerely doubted any of those…zombies…had the intelligence to so much as pick up a baseball bat let alone walk around holding it as if they'd try and decapitate a full grown man with it.

"Shit." Kathryn seethed beside Sam, unable to keep the note of surprise out of her voice.

At first Sam thought the sight of the frightened young man was the cause of her astonishment – seeing that there were still living, breathing human beings walking the streets of Raccoon City had certainly come as a shock to him – but then he heard the sharp _click _behind him. Before the trooper could so much as turn his head he felt cold metal pressed against the back of his neck. A second later, warm air brushed his ear as a voice tinged with a British accent spoke.

"Put the weapon down, lad." The voice said. "Don't do anything stupid and you won't get hurt."

Cursing himself for a fool, Sam glanced to his right and saw Kathy looking at him with askance. Out of the corner of his eye, the trooper could just make out the barrel of a rifle pressed against his friend's skull. He might have deserved to die for his stupidity – why hadn't he though to check the alleyway behind them as well? – but Kathryn certainly did not. Sam nodded to the girl and let the H&K clatter to the ground, he heard Kathy's weapon fall a split second later.

"Good." The Brit sighed and Sam felt the pressure on the back of his neck ease up. "Now, you and the young lady, turn around real slow and there'll be no need for the sanitation committee to come down here and scrape your face off the wall."

Nodding to Officer Ward once more, Sam slowly began to turn. How could he have been so stupid? If he had only had the presence of mind to glance over his shoulder then this catastrophe would have been avoided.

_'It figures though.' _The trooper though dejectedly, raising his hands as he turned to face his captor. _'I'm trapped in a city full of monsters, running low on ammo and I'm just about to reach safety when _what _happens? I get robbed and shot at gunpoint by some trigger- happy yahoo because I was too dense to watch my back. It'd be funny if I knew I wasn't about to die. They'll probably take what weapons we have – maybe even my body armor – then put two in our heads and be on their merry little way.'_

Wholly convinced that it was a band of the marauding rioters who had been terrorizing Raccoon as of late that had taken them captive, Sam was more than a little stunned to turn around and come face to face with a shaggy-haired man in his middle years, blue eyes twinkling with mirth, decked out in a Kevlar helmet and army fatigues with the American flag stitched across one shoulder. The soldier's bearded face creased in a smile as he saw the surprise flash in Sam's eyes.

"Who…" The trooper began lamely then turned his head to see that Kathryn wore a similar expression.

Officer Ward stood starring agape at another one of the men dressed in camouflage body armor wielding an assault rifle. Strapped to his back was a cumbersome looking device that had a phone resting in a slat on the side. Sam had seen enough Vietnam movies to recognize the piece of equipment as a military radio. The radioman wore a neutral expression as he lowered the barrel of his weapon.

"Get over here, Skip!" The Brit shouted past Sam to the haggard-looking young man who approached at a nervous jog. "Good work, kid."

"Th-thanks." The young man – Skip – stuttered, glancing up at Sam uncertainly.

"All clear, lieutenant!" The radio operator yelled over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving Kathy.

Muted, Sam watched as four more figures came around the corner at the opposite end of the alleyway. One of the men, stern faced and bearded, carried a bolt-action rifle in his hands, the optical scope mounted on the weapon signaling him out as the group's sniper. The soldier next to him was a foot taller than Samuel about twice as wide, his broad shoulders and thick chest making the young trooper think of a black William Brown. The muscular solider held a bulky machine gun in his massive paws.

The man lead them forward had his arm wrapped around the waist of a young woman in a flight suit, supporting her as they walked to join their companions. The girl's face was pale, her hair hanging in wet clumps from the rain, and she favored one leg heavily, a brace and dirty bandage secured around the other.

The fellow keeping her upright, also in his middle years with a crust of stubble forming on his chin wore a mask of calm indifference but the emotions swirling in his eyes gave him away. Sam could see doubt there, doubt and a barely contained panic. Not an encouraging thing to see as judging by the way the solider moved, each step certain and decisive, as well as the air of authority that seem to follow in his footsteps marked this nervous man as the unit's leader.

"Sorry for the dramatics." The lieutenant said, handing the girl over to the dark-skinned soldier on his left. "We could hear you talking from down the street and I didn't want to get shot by accident if you guys were feeling jumpy so I had Skip circle around a couple of my guys slip in behind you. Sorry if we gave you a scare but I thought it best to err on the side of caution all things considered."

"Yeah," Skip said, moving over to join the lieutenant, sliding past Sam with a cautious gaze as if he thought the trooper might try and beat him to death for his trickery. "S-sorry about that."

The soldiers, along with a miserable looking Skip, formed a line in front of Sam and Kathryn. For a team of professionals they certainly gave the appearance of a ragtag bunch at first glance. Their clothes were covered in a film of nameless grime, stained with sweat and dried blood. The dirt on their tired, flushed faces was streaked by the falling rain. Each soldier's eyes twitched from left to right anxiously, as if expecting a threat to come from any direction. Considering all that he bared witness to that night Sam wouldn't be surprised if such a thing happened.

"You guys are military?" Kathryn choked out beside the trooper, saying it more as a statement of fact than a question.

The lieutenant nodded. "We're part of an Army Ranger detachment out of Michigan. I'm Lieutenant Zeke Wilcott and it looks like you've already met what's left of my squad."

Lieutenant Wilcott went on to introduce the other members of his team. Sergeant Wesley Creeks was his right hand man. Sergeant Ryan Pierce functioned as the unit's tactical sharpshooter. Corporal Joseph Cooper was the designated heavy weapons specialist. Sergeant Scott Owens worked the radio and Rachel Parker was the injured pilot. Under normal circumstances Sam would have shaken hands but the circumstances in Raccoon were far from normal and he would have felt seriously conflicted shaking hands with people who had been pointing weapons at him only moments ago.

"Wait a minute." Sam said after Zeke finished with the introductions. "You said 'what's left' of your squad. What does that mean? Aren't there more of your people running around looking for survivors or something?"

"I doubt it." Zeke replied evenly, shaking his head.

"You _doubt _it?" Kathryn interjected, her tone half-indignant and half-incredulous. "Isn't that why you guys are here? To rescue survivors?"

Again, the lieutenant shook his head. "Those were never our orders. We –"

"Then how do you explain the kid?" Sam interrupted, gesturing at Skip with his hand, making the young man jump. "I seriously doubt you brought him along to carry your bags."

"If you would give me half a second to explain," Zeke said, irritation thick in his voice and apparent in his eyes, "then I'll tell you everything you want to know, okay?"

"Fine." Sam replied evenly, angrily retrieving his pistol from the ground and thrusting it back into his holster. "Go ahead."

"Thank you." Lieutenant Wilcott sighed, wiping his face with the back of his hand, the edge to his voice seeming to dull. "Our unit was dispatched here along with three others. Our orders were to reinforce the officers already stationed at the blockades throughout the city until health officials could get the outbreak under control. Unfortunately, on the way here we – we hit a little snag."

"A _little._" Wesley scoffed sarcastically. Cooper nudged him with an elbow and gave the Brit an admonishing look.

"There was a malfunction." Zeke continued, ignoring the other two soldiers. "Rachel told me the chopper's engine overheated. We crash-landed in the middle of a street several blocks from here. Not long after that we were attacked by – well – by zombies. I'm not surprised that you aren't looking at me like I'm crazy. You must have seen them too otherwise you wouldn't be miles away from your appointed barricade looking like you've just been through a war."

Taking a moment to glance down at his clothing, Sam decided that Lieutenant Wilcott's assessment was a fairly accurate one. Dried blood and caked on gore covered his vest and pants. There was a nasty tear in the trooper's right sleeve from when he had fallen while retreating from the barricade as well as a nasty scrape to go along with it. Sam was unable to see his face but he was certain if he could it would be tight with fear and creased with worry. A war? Yeah, that about summed it up.

"They massacred us." Sergeant Brocket said after a moment, his voice distant as he went through the night's events for what must have been the hundredth time since running from the blockade. All the smells and sights seemed so close again. Pale, reaching hands, the stench of decaying, diseased flesh, Foster crying out as one of those _things _bit into his hand. "We couldn't stop them. There had to be hundreds of them. There was nothing any of us could do. God…so many people died. I thought we were the only ones left until you guys showed up. Kathy and me and J…"

Before he could finish pronouncing the man's name Foster coughed weakly behind Sam and Officer Ward. Turning, Brocket saw that his friend was still slumped against the alley's wall where he had left him, chest rattling with each new breath he took in. The chubby sergeant's head rolled from side to side lazily as he muttered some nonsense to himself, eyes open but apparently unaware of the presence of the newcomers.

_'He's so far gone.' _Sam thought, heart constricting in his chest, watching Jake absently wipe sweat from his brow before drooping back against the wall. _'I'm so sorry, Tubbs. I should have just shot the bastard.' _

"Your friend alright?" Zeke asked a little warily, poking his head past Sam to observe the slumped, sweaty husk that was Jacob Foster.

"He's fine." Samuel snapped, positioning himself in front of the lieutenant once more, glaring defiantly. He could feel the tension from the other Rangers as they looked at the wrecked vessel that had once been his closest friend. Sam's hand drifted down to the butt of his pistol as he noticed the soldier's tightening their grip on the weapons they held.

_'He's fine.' _The words repeated in Sam's mind as he starred Lieutenant Wilcott in the eye and felt Kathy lay a hand on his arm. _'He's fine and none of you bastards better think about trying to put him down. We're going to help him anyway we can and if anyone of you tries to hurt him, so help me, I'll kill you myself.' _

"One of those things – a zombie – bit him." Kathy said, seeming not to notice the sharp look Sam instantly threw her way. "Can you do anything for him? You guys must know _something _about what's going on in this city. The government has to know something."

Steeling himself, the trooper tightened his hand around the grip of his sidearm and waited for what was to come next. Kathy shouldn't have said anything, these guys wouldn't know anything about the virus, they were just grunts sent in to help keep order and while that might have been helpful a few hours ago it was meaningless now. All that mattered was that the Rangers knew Foster was infected with the same bug that had turned almost everyone in town into a walking corpse and they would probably want to him because of it. Kill him before he could kill them.

_'Just try it.' _Sam dared them silently, watching as Zeke and his troops studied Tubbs carefully. _'Just go on and try it.'_

Relief and a great deal of surprise washed over Sergeant Brocket when Zeke simply shook his head and turned back to regard Kathy. None of the Rangers took so much as a step closer to Jacob. No one raised a weapon. Sam let his grip on the pistol relax.

"We know about as much as you do, I figure." Lieutenant Wilcott shrugged. "As far as I've been able to figure out whatever this mystery disease is its turning people into zombies…and maybe even other things."

"Other things?" Sam raised an eyebrow. "What are you talking about?"

"There's…there's other things out there." Skip replied meekly, glancing over his shoulder.

"Things worse than whatever you've bumped into so far." Said the Ranger leaning against the alley wall with a bolt-action rifle cradled in his arms – Sergeant Pierce if Sam remembered right.

Kathy snorted. "What could be worse than those things? They wiped out our entire defensive line. If there's anything running out there that's worse than that I do not want to meet it."

"You got that right." Cooper muttered, changing the ammo belt in his SAW.

"What else is out there?" Sam asked warily, scared to know what could possibly be worse than a flesh eating monster that could walk through a hail of bullets like it was a hail of spit balls. Something like what Foster was going to become.

"Oh, nothing much." The Brit – Wesley – said sardonically. "Just an eight-foot giant with claws the size of Samurai swords and a jaw he can drop as low as his balls. Oh, right, and then there were these things we ran into back at Skip's apartment building. They've got no skin, run around on all fours and could wrap their tongues around you three times and still have enough slack left for you to play jump rope with."

Sam felt his jaw drop and – given the nature of the descriptions – was certain it must have fallen somewhere around his balls. "You're kidding me right?" He said.

"You saw those things – the zombies – you saw what they did." Zeke said, looking Sam in the eye, his own gaze unblinking. "You know that Raccoon City has monsters well, guess what, they come in all shapes and colors too. And, believe me, they've all got nifty little tricks of their own and a variety of ways to kill you so, if we're all done chatting, I think it might be a good idea to find some shelter."

"Y-yeah." Sam stuttered after a moment, what they had just described could not have existed – then again before that night he would have thought zombies could not have existed either. "We're heading for Precient 24, it was set up as an emergency shelter for civilians and we got word from Captain Brown a little while ago that they were still holed up there."

"That's convenient," Zeke said, a small grin splitting his grimy face, "we were going that way too. The survivors of another chalk said they'd rendezvous with my company there."

Sam nodded. "Let's go then. Maybe the captain is expecting you guys."

"You didn't know we were coming?" Wilcott asked, drawing his brows together.

"Nope," Samuel shook his head, "but they don't tell us blue-collar bums everything either."

"Tell me about it." Zeke muttered then shook his head. "Alright, get your injured man and let's get moving."

Sam nodded again, tapping Kathy on the shoulder and signaling her to follow as the lieutenant turned to his radioman – Owens. Together the two moved to where Jacob rested and slung his arms around their necks. With no small amount of effort and a great deal of grunting, Sam and Kathy managed to life Foster's considerable bulk. The SWAT commander mumbled something unintelligible and lolled his head against Sam's shoulder.

"Alright, let's go people." Zeke said, helping support Rachel once more. "Coop, Wes, you two take point. Sergeant Pierce, Sergeant Owens, you've got the rear. Skip, stick close to me and the officers. Move out."

As the soldiers moved into their positions and the group started out of the alleyway, Foster whispered weakly in Sam's ear. "I…I think I'm sick. Sam, I'm not feeling so hot."

"I know." The younger man spoke with a calm he did not feel. "I know but we're almost at the station. We can get you some help there. Just hang on, buddy."

The words played over and over again the trooper's mind as they started up the street with Zeke's men leading the way. _'Just hang on buddy.' _

-----------------------------------------Page Break--------------------------------------------------

When Precient 24 loomed into view at the top of the street Ezekiel Wilcott thought he was laying eyes upon a fortress rather than a police station. The building was three floors high and constructed solidly out of stone. The windows lining the face of the station had all been boarded up but the lieutenant could see light filtering out through slits in the metallic double doors that served as the building's entrance. Sandbags topped with barbed wire surrounded the station's front steps. Behind these stood two men dressed in black body armor holding submachine guns, peering into the dark. Zeke spied around a moment longer with a pair of night vision goggles fished from his rucksack and spotted two more figures atop the precient's roof, both dressed as the men bellow but one held a pair of binoculars while the other had the stock of a bolt-action rifle pressed against his shoulder. A sniper and his target man. When the spotter saw the Ranger looking up at him he used his free hand to wave.

_'Looks like they were expecting us after all.' _Zeke though, waving back as he replaced the NVGs. _'The cops must have radioed ahead after the blockade fell.'_

With the thought came the uncomfortable reminder of a new problem for the lieutenant. Now that the quarantine had failed the creatures that had turned Raccoon City into their own little buffet were free to head out into the countryside. Free to head out and spread the disease.

Lieutenant Wilcott had no choice but to inform headquarters of that development and wait for an appropriate course of action. Unfortunately, Zeke had a strong feeling what that course of action would be and it did not instill him with a great deal of hope.

_'Panic fire.' _Zeke thought as he signaled for the group to move out from the building they were squatting behind. _'They'll napalm this city and all outlying roads just to make sure the virus doesn't spread any further and there won't be any chance of evac before then because there's no telling who's infected.' _

Well, that wasn't exactly true. The stocky SWAT officer that had been bitten – Zeke never had learned his name – was clearly infected. The way he need support to walk, the way he constantly mumbled to himself and the way sweat seemed to drench every piece of exposed skin were obvious enough signs. As much as it pained him to admit it, Zeke had been about to recommend leaving the man behind but the way the younger trooper had glared at him gave the lieutenant the distinct feeling he would have been shot for even suggesting such a thing.

"We'll have to put him down later, you know?" Wesley had whispered to him when the two officers had gone to retrieve their friend.

"First things first, Wes." Zeke had replied. "First things first."

Cooper took point as the group darted for the station's front doors, careful to avoid the bodies and shell casings that littered the street. Some of the dead consisted of men and women in plain clothes, their skin the color of ash and peeling back in thick strips, bullet holes riddled their bodies. The rest were police officers, decked out in SWAT body armor or blue uniforms, blood poured from harsh gashes in their necks and bellies. Many still clutched their weapons as they starred blindly at the night sky.

"God," Skip gagged from beside Zeke, "there's _dozens _them! Oh, God, the _smell!_"

"Keep it together, kid." Coop said gently as the two troopers behind the sandbags waved them in.

"I think I'm going to be sick." The female officer – her nametag read "Ward"- muttered.

Zeke and the others quickly hopped over the sandbags, careful to avoid being cut on the razor wire, and were then helped to the ground by the two SWAT troopers on the other side. Getting the chubby officer over the fortifications was the hardest part, requiring the two troopers to pull on his arms while Officer Ward and her companion handed the man up to them. After everyone was assembled on the other side and moving up the steps, the massive blue painted steel doors were thrown open and another figure holding an MP5 submachine gun stood framed in the entryway.

The newcomer immediately made Zeke think of Joe Cooper with fair skin and close cropped brown hair. This man, dressed in black slacks, a blue windbreaker and a bulletproof vest, was just as tall as the heavy weapons specialist and as densely built. A pair of intense blue eyes surveyed the group from behind the sheen of his eyeglasses. Zeke was about to extend his hand in greeting to the man, taking him as the one in charge of the precient, but the large fellow pushed his way past the Ranger as if not seeing him at all and moved straight to where the injured SWAT trooper stood supported by his two friends.

"What happened to him?" The man with the glasses demanded, choking on his words. "I told you to radio in if anything went wrong. What happened?"

"One of those things bit him." Officer Ward replied.

"Back at the barricade." The young trooper added.

"Fuck." The newcomer swore, then removed his glasses to rub his bloodshot eyes before shaking his head. "Alright, get him inside, tell Pommer to go and get Doctor Burke."

The rotund SWAT officer let out a groan as the two nodded and carried him up the steps, disappearing inside the walls of Precient 24. Putting his glasses back on – Zeke could see the word POLICE tattooed across the back of his jacket in yellow lettering – the man turned and regard the lieutenant with that fierce blue gaze once more. Extending his hand the man took Zeke's firmly in his and gave it a hard, painful, shake.

"Captain William Brown of the R.P.D." The man said. "Who the hell are you guys?"

Zeke sighed he was really getting tired of having to make the same introductions over and over again. "Lieutenant Ezekiel Wilcott. We're with an Army Ranger unit sent to reinforce the barricades here…or we were anyways."

William snorted and crossed a pair of tree trunk arms over a barrel chest. "You're just a little late don't you think, lieutenant?"

"There were some unforeseen complications, alright? Look, we've all got our problems so don't snap at me, Captain Brown." Zeke replied, not harshly but firmly and in a concise manner.

A fierce, fiery look flashed in the captain's eyes as he puffed out his bulging chest and Zeke braced himself for the blow he was certain would follow. Much to the lieutenant's relief though, Brown unclenched his fist – a mighty looking weapon all its own – and sighed deeply. Running a hand through his short hair William shook his head and regarded the Ranger with an apologetic expression.

"I'm sorry, lieutenant." Brown sighed again, his broad shoulders sagging. "Things have just been rough all over if you haven't noticed. I've lost a lot of friends and good cops over the past couple weeks and now Jake is…" He trailed off, glancing towards the station's front entrance before turning back to face Zeke. "I'm glad you guys are here though, about time we got a pleasant surprise around here."

"Surprise?" Wesley said, sounding taken aback. "You mean you didn't know we were coming either?"

William shook his head. "Should I have?"

"The leader of our chalk, Captain Sullivan," Zeke said and flinched at the sound of the man's name. Just saying it stirred the gruesome images of what had transpired after the crash back to life. Stomping the painful memories out of his head Zeke continued, "told us that your chief of police had been informed that military support was on its way a week ago."

"Chief Irons you mean?" William said the name as if it tasted sour to his tongue. "That probably explains it, he always was a couple crayons short of a full box. I haven't heard from him since the crisis started and I sincerely doubt anyone else has either, still he'd have to be one hell of a whacko to keep the news that the cavalry was on the way a secret. Anyways, what matter is that you're here now, so let's get inside and figure out how to get out of this frigin' mess."

Without another word Captain Brown turned on his heel and paced up the steps. Two more SWAT troopers appeared in the doorway, scanning the darkness with their weapons as William approached with the Rangers in tow. Zeke moved slowly up the steps, taking caution not to aggravate Rachel's leg further.

"How are you feeling?" He asked as they made their slow climb.

"I'm alright." The pilot replied with a small, tired grin. "A little light-headed but that's probably just due to the fact that I could use some chow and a hot shower right now." She sniffed the air lightly and scrunched her nose up. "You could do with one too, lieutenant."

"I'll keep that in mind, major." Zeke chuckled, helping her conquer another step.

Rachel smiled at him then and Zeke could feel new emotions stirring within him as he looked at her grinning face. Pain and anguish, both physical and spiritual, formed a cloud in the injured pilot's eyes but breaking through that dense fog of heartache the lieutenant could see the rays of courage and determination. The girl's leg was broken, she had spent the night watching her friends die and running from unspeakable horrors but still she managed to smile. Right then and there, in the midst of so much death and terror, Rachel Parker looked beautiful.

_'Keep it in your pants, Zeke.' _The lieutenant's mind cautioned him as he led the pilot into the station's lobby. _'You can worry about hooking up with Rachel later, for now stay focused. You've been lucky so far but luck runs out at some point and you don't want to have to go through what you went through with Sullivan again now do you? Not with Rachel or Wes or Skip, poor kid should still be back home eating his mom's oatmeal.' _

Nodding to himself, Zeke stepped through the precient's front doors on the heels of his team, the two SWAT members promptly locking up the entrance once everyone had stepped inside. The lobby of Preicent 24 was surprisingly roomy. Standing in the center of the white linoleum floor was a semi-circle shaped oak reception desk complete with desktop computer and telephone. Placed up against the right hand wall was a row of chairs for those waiting to report a crime or be processed for committing one. Directly ahead of the group was a pair of double doors crafted from solid looking wood, an indentical pair of doors stood off to the left as well with a key card reader set into the wall beside it.

The lobby itself had few decorations though, other than a few potted plants there was not much to look at. The shrubs and bushes standing around the reception desk and on either side of the door were wilted and turning brown, dying from neglect. Zeke thought they resembled the mood of the city perfectly.

Lieutenant Wilcott eased Rachel into one of the chairs before turning to face William, the rest of his squad standing at his back. "I heard you mention that there was a doctor here?" He asked.

"Yeah," Captain Brown nodded. "Doctor Burke. He came here when things started to go south. Used to work over at Saint Jude's if I remember right."

"Do you think the doc could take a look at Rachel?" Zeke asked, gesturing to the wounded pilot. "She busted her leg up pretty bad and we've only been able to slap a bandage on it really."

"When he's done with Tubbs." William answered definitively.

"Tubbs?" Wesley asked. "That the chap who got bit?"

"Yeah." The police captain said bluntly, obviously not wanting to talk about it. Zeke assumed the two must have been close friends, the thought made him wonder how he might feel if one of his troop became infected. "When he's done with Foster I'll get him to check on the young lady."

Nodding quietly the lieutenant decided it might be a wise idea to change the topic of their conversation. "I noticed the sniper on the roof," he said, "smart idea that, should keep any of those things from getting too close. What other precautions have you taken?"

William let out a heavy sigh as he sagged down into one of the visitors chairs, unslinging his MP5 and propping it up against one leg. "All doors leading into and out of the station have been locked. The – the zombies seem to have some trouble dealing with deadbolts. I've got men out front on watch. The power went out a while ago so I sent Thompson and his team down to get the generator running again. As you can see we've got lights again – they came on a few minutes before you guys showed up – so I'm just waiting for them to get back now."

Again, Zeke gave a nod of approval. "How long will the station's provisions hold out for?"

"A week, maybe two if we ration it just right." The captain removed his glasses and cleaned them on his shirt. "After that we're screwed. There's more help coming though right? Choppers to evacuate your team and the others right? They wouldn't just leave you all stranded."

The bright, hopeful look in Captain Brown's eyes made Zeke's heart break. Thos eyes were bloodshot and weary, the man exhausted by all the horror and tragedy he had no doubt born witness to. He looked at Zeke with a pleading gaze, William Brown did not just _want _to hear a scrap of good news he _needed _to hear it. The lieutenant could only sigh, he had nothing positive to tell this man.

"I wish I knew, captain." He said flatly, resisting the urge to sigh again as he saw Will's face droop. "I've been trying to get into contact with headquarters but there's been a great deal of interference and I can't get a clear signal."

William groaned, a pathetic, defeated sound and slouched forward in his chair. His head fell heavily into his hands. Zeke was not entirely sure but he thought he could hear soft, strangled sobs escaping the man.

"No help's coming." The captain said, his voice haggard and muffled by his hands. "We're screwed. I tried so hard, tried to keep it together, tried to help everyone else keep it together and now it's all for _nothing_! We're all going to die here like rats in a sinking ship!"

Zeke dropped to a crouching position and shook the big man roughly like he had done with Skip in the elevator. He had only been in Raccoon for a few hours and already he'd seen enough to question whether or not anything going on around him was real or some kind of twisted nightmare. He did not even want to think about what the mental strain would have been like for William Brown, a man who had been stuck in this nightmare for weeks. The Ranger knew the man was falling apart and that if he or anyone else wanted to see tomorrow then he was going to have to keep Captain Brown's sanity intact for a little while longer.

"We are far from screwed, captain." Zeke said firmly, forcing William to look at him. There were tears in those broken red eyes after all. "If you breakdown now though, we _will _be screwed. Every last one of us. Now, if you want to get out of this, I'm going to need your help."

"H-how?" William asked, swallowing back the water in his eyes. "What do you need me to do?"

'_Good.' _Zeke sighed, this time with relief. The good captain wasn't crazy yet at least. In some ways, the Ranger was surprised he wasn't too.

"You can start by giving me information." He said, releasing his grip on the man's shoulders. "Tell me everything you've seen or heard since the disaster started up to this moment right now. Everything."

Captain Brown nodded and started talking. The more he went on the more Zeke began to frown. And sweat. Things were a lot worse in Raccoon City than he had first though. Much worse.

Author's Note: Another chapter up for you, my Readers. I hope you enjoy. Please read and review when you get a chance. Your feedback is what keeps me inspired and writing. Thank you and enjoy.


	15. Promises

**Chapter 14: Promises**

October 2, 1998

12:00 AM

Precient 24

With a heavy sigh Sam threw himself into one of the chairs resting against the wall and studied his new surroundings. It seemed like a lifetime since he had last seen the first floor of the station, home to the robbery and homicide divisions of the force, with its heavily polished tile floors and columns of desks laden with paperwork and the person effects of the investigators whom occupied that workspace. Perhaps it truly had been a lifetime for all the change that had taken place.

The once immaculate white tiles had been defiled by thick coats of dust and muddy boot prints. An assortment of papers and multicolored file folders littered the ground, pushed hastily from the surfaces of desks where stainless steel weapons crates now lay. Pictures of family members and crafts made by children in art class lay shattered and forgotten amid the mess upon the floor. Two chairs had been wedged between the elevator doors at the far end of the room, next to the staircase leading to the second level, to keep the doors open in case a hasty retreat was needed for the remaining survivors.

_'So few.'_ Sam though, surveying those that still moved about the wide room. _'There's so few of us left.' _

Eight others to be precise, not counting those Sam had arrived with and those guarding the station's front but still a considerably smaller number than what the trooper had expected. What _had _he really expected? Well-organized teams of officers, armed to the teeth, guarding every conceivable entrance into the precient would have been nice. Hundreds of civilian survivors huddled together on cots looking frightened but hopeful that help would arrive shortly and everything would be right once more would have been even better. Sam shook his head, clearly he had expected too much.

Instead what he got was half a dozen SWAT troopers, looking generic and blocky in their combat gear, eyes grim as they clutched their weapons tight and spoke to one another in hushed tones. Rather than the hundreds of civilian refugees Sam had hoped for he saw only two, one a stranger, the other a good friend. Both were looking over Foster at the moment.

Doctor Gregory Burke had the look of a hawk about him. His dark searching eyes and hooked nose gave the lanky physician a subtle sort of majesty. The gray streaks in his thick black hair and blue collar shirt with the sleeves turned up at the elbow making him look every part the MD low on resources but willing to do whatever he could to help his patient. It was plain in the methodical way that Burke went about feeling Jacob's pulse and shinning a tiny penlight in his eyes that he had done this many times before.

Tessa Foster, a plump, sturdy woman with chocolate skin and hair to match, used one hand to clutch her husband's and the other to mop sweat from his forehead with a Kleenex snatched from the pocket of her torn jeans. Samuel felt his heart constrict painfully in his chest whenever Tessa's eyes turned towards Foster's pale – almost ashen – face, so full of anguish and fear and anger at being helpless to do nothing for the one she loved. Sometimes, for the briefest moment, Tessa would turn that suffering gaze to Sam and give him a reassuring smile. Clearly Jacob hadn't told her what had really happened back at the barricade or she would be trying to tear his throat out with her bare hands rather than give off the appearance that she was holding herself together.

_'I wish she would just try and throttle me until my head pops.' _The young trooper thought wearily. _'It'd be just what I deserve – no – even that would be letting me off too easy. I sealed my best friend's death sentence after all.'_

A door opening to Sam's left drew his attention away from Jacob and Tessa. Kathryn Ward emerged from the ladies room, her hair a little straighter and her face a great deal cleaner now that she had been given an opportunity to wash away the evening's grime. She smiled warmly at Sam as he caught her eye but the young man noticed his friend's smile came nowhere near her eyes, eyes that were swollen and a puffy red color. Kathy had been doing more than cleaning her face in the washroom.

"Hey," she said lightly taking a seat next to her friend, resting her head on his shoulder and cracking a yawn. "You should try and get some sleep."

Sam shook his head. "I'm not tired." He said plainly. "I don't think I'll ever be able to sleep a wink again." It was hard to get any rest when you knew you were responsible for the death – a truly horrible one in this case – of someone you greatly respected and liked, Sam thought.

"It's not your fault." Kathryn said, craning her neck to look up into the man's eyes as if she could read his thoughts.

"Kathy –" He began but the younger woman cut him off with a sharp gesture.

"It's _not _your fault, Sam." She repeated, the face Sam had once though of as being so fragile and delicate was now hard as rock. "It could have happened to any of us, Sam, _any _of us. We didn't know what the hell to expect at the blockade, you were shocked and stunned just like the rest of us. There's no shame in admitting that. Foster doesn't blame you for what happened, I don't blame you for happened. Please, Sam, stop torturing yourself like this!"

"How can I!" Sam cried, not realizing he had raised his voice until he noticed the peculiar looks the other SWAT troopers were directing his way. Scowling, Sam turned his back on them and lowered his tone, staring hard into Kathryn's defiant eyes. "How can I? If I had been one step quicker, if I had just pulled the fucking trigger everything would be fine now! Jacob would be smiling at Tess and laugh at her for ever being worried about him in the first place, not sweating buckets while he waits to turn into one of those – those _things!_"

"Sam!" Kathy said, her voice a sharp whisper as she shot forward in her seat. "You don't know that's what's going to happen. Th-there might be a chance his body will be able to fight off the infection."

"You know that's bullshit, Kathy." Sam fumed angrily, not at Kathy but at himself for being too slow to save Jacob, at the futility of the whole situation. He felt like tearing his hair out by the roots. "That's how this disease – whatever it is – spread so fast. Everyone who gets attacked by one of those things _becomes _one of them. We don't even know how much longer Tubbs is going to be Tubbs for. An hour, maybe two? Then he'll turn and try to kill us – even his wife. I did that to him Kathy. _Me!_"

"No," the female officer said, the word crumbling on her tongue as fresh tears brewed in her eyes. "Sam, you won't ever get me to blame y…"

What came over the trooper at that moment, Samuel Brocket could not explain. One moment he was listening to Kathy deny any claims he had to guilt for Foster's fate and then he was seizing her cheeks in his hands, pulling her towards him and pressing his lips to hers. _'What the hell am I doing?' _Sam wondered, feeling bewilderment over his own boldness and the fact that Kathy wasn't pulling back but rather easing her own tongue between his teeth.

What the hell was he doing? He didn't deserve to kiss someone like Kathryn Ward – he didn't deserve to even _talk _to someone like her – not after what he had done but, in that instant, Sam didn't care anymore. He had spent the evening watching his friends die, had spent the night running from death itself and the icing on the cake was that one of his closest companions was about to turn into a murderous cannibal – all thanks to him.

Sam felt cold inside, so cold that it was as if winter festered in his heart. Surely his sanity would crumble to dust if he allowed that coldness to take hold of him. He needed, desperately _needed, _something warm and reassuring to take hold of and fight off the numbness overwhelming his being. There was only death and madness in that biting chill.

Kathryn, her soft cheeks heating Sam's frigid hands as he gripped her face. Kathryn, her lips seeming to breathe new life into the man the longer he held her in their embrace. Kathryn, who was still able to smile after all she had seen that terrible night. God, how the young man wished he could taste her lips for all his life so that he would never have to know the horror of that emptiness gnawing away at his core. God, how he wished she would pull away from him and slap him until his face bled. Did she not know what he had done?

After a moment – Sam was unable to say how long exactly – the young woman did pull back but not to strike a blow against the man who still cradled her jaw so tenderly in his hands. There was surprise and confusion in Kathy's wide eyes but a gentle, timid sort of understanding that had not been there before kindled in those green pools as well. Her mouth worked silently as she reached up to hold the hands pressed against her flushed cheeks.

"I'm sorry." Sam sighed, lowering his eyes to the floor, unable to meet that magnificent crystalline gaze any longer. He knew the others assembled in the room must be gawking with gaping jaws but they could all have sprouted a second head for all the notice Sam gave them. All that seemed to exist was Kathy and him self. "I've screwed up so many times tonight that I've lost count. I let Foster get hurt, I won't make the same mistake twice. I promise I'll do everything I can to protect you Kathy. I won't let anyone or anything hurt you. I promise. I swear it."

"Sam –" Kathy began slowly and he could tell by here tone that she was going to dismiss his words again. She was in no need of protection, she would say and that he shouldn't make promises he couldn't be sure of keeping. She was going to say that, Sam was sure, but the double doors suddenly swept inward with a loud bang and the words died on her lips. Gunshots filled Sam's ears.

"Doc, I need you in here right now!" William Brown ordered, tone urgent, his considerable bulk framed in the doorway.

Burke nodded and was on his feet in a moment, gliding towards the door with that subtle grace of his, flanked by two black-clad SWAT officers. Sam exchanged a worried glance with Kathy before they were both on their feet and following after, ready to see what new catastrophe had befallen them. Whatever it was, Sam doubted he would be surprised.

Author's Note: Well, this was a short chapter so I thought I'd post it as well. Stay tuned for another update soon. Please enjoy. Read and review when you get a chance.


	16. New Arrivals

**Chapter 15: New Arrivals**

October 2, 1998

12:00 AM

Streets of Raccoon City

_'We've been running for hours.' _Eddie thought as he mounted another rise with the bikers only a few steps behind, and those horrible, springing beasts still refusing to give up the chase. They had tried everything to lose the hulking monsters pursuing them: running up side streets, darting between alleyways, doubling back on their own tracks but they were never fear of the Stalkers – as Eddie had come to think of them – for more than a minute or two. It took the rookie only a short time to figure out the creatures were tracking them by scent, it was the only explanation for how the things were able to keep pace after the hundreds of twists and turns they had made.

Eddie checked his weapon, the .38 Tredd had given him what felt like years ago, as he ran up the street not daring to pause even a moment with all the dark blurs jumping from rooftop to rooftop above them. He thumbed away the empty casings and snorted. One round left. _'That's lucky.'_

That was another thing about the Stalkers: they could take a bullet as if it were a stiff slap. Officer Gabbor had learned that particular lesson the hard way when one of the ape-like beasts had dropped down in front of him – seeming to fall from the middle of the sky – after he led the group around the corner of an apartment building. Reacting solely on instinct, adrenaline lending the young man courage and strength enough to raise Tredd's gun, Eddie fired point-blank into the Stalker's barrel chest five times. He remembered watching in muted horror as the .38 rounds embedded themselves in the monster's scaly carapace and all it had done was bellow that fierce, warbling cry. At the time, that bestial shriek had sounded a great deal like a mocking laugh to Edward Gabbor.

Shuddering at the memory, Eddie did his best to focus on the present. If it had not been for the quick wits and quicker throwing arm of one of the biker's – sending a wicked-looking stainless steel knife through the Stalker's throat that sent it leaping away to safety – the rookie knew he would have wound up just like Howard Peterson. Poor Howard. Poor Ben. Poor – no – no he wouldn't think about any of them now!

"Wait up!" A gruff voice called behind the young officer. "Wait for one damn second!"

Going against his better judgment Eddie ground his feet to a halt and quickly ducked into an alleyway off to his right. The Stalkers seemed to have some trouble just plopping out of the air into those areas. It should be safe for a minute or two, long enough for him to catch his breath and give the trio trailing him a chance to catch up. One of them was hurt, he thought.

Sucking in a deep breath, Eddie sagged against the cold concrete wall behind him, feebly trying to wipe away the sweat pouring down his dirty face. The area was narrow, dark and damp, just like every other alley he had seen that night. There was a smell in that cramped space that curled the young man's nostrils. Looking to his right he could see the stack of trash bags piled halfway up the building's exterior. Judging by the stench they must have been sitting there for weeks now. It was a pungent odor, the sickly sweet smell of spoiled fruit. Eddie had grown quite accustomed to that aroma during his short stay in Raccoon.

_'Just like the zombies at the barricade.' _He thought, in the distance the sounds of boots coming around the corner filled his hearing. _'Just like the zombies in the streets, just like the ones that tore Tredd to – no! No, I won't think about that now.'_

The biker's came around the corner then, stumbling into the alley while coughing and gasping for breath. The skinny one with the weasely face fell to his knees and succumbed to a violent coughing fit while the tallest of the three supported a man that could have been his brother for their match braided beards and weather-worn faces. It had been him that had saved Eddie's life less than an hour ago.

"You got a name kid? I can't seem to remember it." He asked and the rookie gave a start, thinking the man might have caught him starring and was none too pleased. The biker certainly didn't look like the type one would want to upset.

"Y-yeah." Eddie stammered, barely able to hear his own voice above the sound of blood thundering in his ears. "Eddie Gabbor. I owe you one, I guess, that was some fancy work with the knife. If it hadn't been for you I'd be mince meet now."

"Don't worry about it." The biker shrugged resting his injured friend against the wall. "I'm Shank, the guy with the bum leg is Slugger and the skinny fellow hacking his brains out over there is – "

"Don't call me skinny you fat fuck!"

" – Tech. Welcome to the fucking party, Ed." Shank finished unphased by his comrade's indignant outburst.

_'Shank? Slugger? Tech? Who are these clowns?' _Eddie wondered absently then shook his head. Out of all the things that mattered in Raccoon City tonight names were the least of all. Somewhere above them a shriek split the momentary silence and Eddie knew it was time to be elsewhere. "Let's move."

On they went, curving around side streets or dashing through dank alleys – anything that would keep them off the wide-open main roads where they would be easy prey for the quick Stalkers. They had to be getting close to the station by now, Eddie though. Even with fear and panic clouding his thoughts the rookie still had the presence of mind to keep an eye out for street signs to tell him he was going in the right direction. _'We have to reach the precient,' _the voice in his head repeated over and over like a mantra, _'it'll be safe at the station.'_

Then, crouched in between a Grady's Diner and a Winners department store, he saw it. Bodies. Hundreds of bodies littering the street outside the massive stone foundations of Precient 24. Men and women – their flesh discolored and seeming ready to fall off the bone – in street clothes lay slumped over officers in bloodstained uniforms or black SWAT combat gear. Shell casing lay scattered everywhere, the black asphalt was stained crimson with so much blood. The stench of death and decay was so overpowering that Eddie lurched forward and emptied his stomach where he crouched.

"What is it?" Shank asked, inching closer to Eddie. "What's wrong? Are…" The sharp intake of breath behind him alerted the officer that the biker had finally taken note of the scene before him.

"Oh God," Eddie muttered, the words warped by the choking sounds that came out of his mouth as he felt terror wrap its hands about his throat. "They're all dead. Everyone's fucking dead. It's my fault; everyone around me always dies. Ben was around me. Howard was around me. All dead." Officer Gabbor stared at the massacre with wide eyes, hardly aware how violently his shoulders were shaking.

"These guys look like they've been dead for hours, kid." Shank replied behind him though his tone sounded a little choked as well. "I don't think you were around when these dudes bit it."

Eddie didn't hear – couldn't hear – anymore, the voice of his memory was too loud. All he could hear was Ben screaming his name before the zombies dragged him from the fence, his voice so full of fright and accusation that his partner had abandoned him. Then came the sound of claws – monstrous talons that glittered bone white in the moonlight – cutting through sinew and bone. Howard Peterson's head fell at his feet, glassy eyes forever fixed in an expression of shock.

"None of you should be following me." The officer said at last, realizing Shank had seized one of his shoulders. His eyes remained fixed on the rows of bodies before him though. "Everyone who stays with me dies. I'm cursed or something."

"Trust me, kid," Shank said at his back and surprisingly he managed an amused snort, "we all feel that way. It must take some real fucking rotten luck to have wound up in Raccoon tonight but a lot more people than these poor bastards have died so don't try and carry all that weight on your conscience. We've all got enough to think about without having to add that."

Eddie nodded slowly but nothing the big man said was going to change his mind or erase his memory of Ben Tredd and Howard Peterson. He was cursed, plain and simple. Cocking his revolver the young officer charged headlong into the darkness, careful not to trip over a bullet casing or slip in a puddle of blood.

As the group neared the station's front doors whatever relief Officer Gabbor had felt at seeing two, very much _alive_, SWAT troopers standing guard behind a short wall of sandbags was hastily swept away as a chorus of unearthly cries erupted overhead and the sound of heavy feet hitting the pavement filled his ears. Fresh panic crashed over the young cop in a wave as he turned to see five of the hulking Stalkers – their bodies all bulging muscle and glistening scales – standing in the street behind them. He knew it was impossible but looking at the beasts so close Eddie would have sworn the creatures looked triumphant. They had been waiting for this moment a long time after all.

"Run!" Eddie screamed, following his own advice as he tore up the street in front of him, aware of Shank's heavy panting to his left as he struggled to support Slugger's weight and run at the same time.

Blood thundered in his ears, fire burned in his chest, ice sat in his belly. The station loomed in front of him, the guards waving wildly their eyes wide with sheer terror as they caught sight of what chased the ground. _'Almost there.' _Eddie thought desperately. Why couldn't he run faster? _'Twenty feet and I'm there. Almost there. Almo –'_

A dark blur and ear-piercing squeal to his right obliterated the thought. One of the Stalkers landed less than a foot to Eddie's right, close enough for the startled officer to see the creature's fiery red eyes burning a hole through his skull and a maw lined with rows of dripping yellow razors. Steeling himself against the inevitable blow, Officer Gabbor waited to feel those strong jaws close around his neck and have that cavern of daggers tear it from his body when, quite suddenly, the Stalker's head blew apart, showering him with dark blood and bone fragments.

Jaw dropping Eddie whirled in amazement, looking for his savior. He found him a moment later as he saw moonlight glinting off something atop the roof of Precient 24. _'A scope,' _his mind told him, '_a sniper.' _Silently thanking the man – or woman – who had just saved his bacon, the young officer ran on.

_'Ten feet.' _Gunfire filled the air as the troopers standing guard opened up on the horde of Stalkers their submachine guns. Overhead the deep boom of a rifle sounded.

_'Eight feet.' _Eddie's lungs burned with icy fire, his legs screamed out for rest. He couldn't run fast enough. He would never make it.

_'Four feet.' _The creatures bellowed in annoyance as the hot lead peppered their hides. More splitting shrieks sounded in the night, more heavy bodies came thundering down to the street. It was raining the murderous things. _'Never make it.' _

_'Two feet.' _Somehow Shank had managed to get in front of the younger man, his long legs carrying him a pace or two ahead of Eddie despite the added burden of Slugger's bulk. The double-doors to the station were standing open now, William Brown towering in the doorframe dressed in a blue windbreaker and wielding an MP5 of his own. He was flanked by two black-clad SWAT officers, all were firing past Eddie, their mouths moving but any sound was swallowed up by the endless gunfire and hungry cries of the Stalkers.

_'One foot.' _Planting one shoe firmly on the sandbags Eddie prepared to vault himself up and over the barbed wire covering. He could see Shank and Slugger on the other side already, dashing up the front steps as fast as they could move. Where was Tech? Had he fallen behind?

"Behind you!" Captain Brown screamed, raising his weapon, eyes starring past Eddie overflowing with despair and a primal kind of fear.

Turning slowly – everything seemed to be happening in slow motion for Officer Gabbor now – his whole vision was taken up by the Stalker hurling itself through the air towards him. Red eyes burning with desire, saliva pouring through its teeth in anticipation, the creature pulled one clawed hand back.

"Shit." Eddie mouthed, trying to turn out of the way but already knowing it was too late. He had dodged death too many times that night, been lucky far too much. Now, the well of his luck had run dry.

The word seemed to spin as Eddie lost his footing on the damp sandbag. He slipped, falling backwards, the Stalker bellowed its bloodthirsty cry and struck out. Darkness rushed up to take Eddie Gabbor.

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During his twenty-five years Eddie Gabbor had experienced several rather powerful hangovers after several nights of rather powerful drinking but all those hangovers combined could not hold a candle to the headache he awoke to. It felt a great deal like someone had walloped him over the head with a sledgehammer. A rather large someone at that too.

Groaning, the young officer struggled to a sitting position and realized his head was not the only part of his anatomy that sledgehammer had been taken to. It seemed Eddie's back and right leg had also received a once over. Touching the back of his skull gingerly Eddie grimaces as his fingers brushed across the plump, swollen lump of flesh that had taken up residence there.

_'At least I know I'm still alive.' _The rookie thought, shivering at the memory of the Stalker throwing itself through the air at him, foaming at the mouth with eager anticipation. _'I doubt dead people have headaches like this. Why, is another question though. Why…'_

"Why am I still alive?" The words were out of his mouth before Eddie even realized he had spoken.

"_How _you're alive is a better question." William Brown said, stepping into Eddie's vision. There was blood on his jacket but he was smiling all the same. There was relief in those tired, fatherly eyes but pain as well. Eddie wondered just how much he had missed since the incident at the barricade. "You must have the devil's luck, son. You sure picked a good time to fall on your ass, toppled right under that…that thing's…swing and gave me the shot I needed to take it's head off."

Lucky. He had been lucky again. Eddie didn't know whether to jump for joy or cry out of exasperation. Maybe he should do both he thought.

"There were others with me." Eddie said, suddenly recalling the faces of the three rough gentlemen who had come all this way with him. "Are they – "

"We're fine." Shank said, lounging in the chair behind the reception desk, his huge booted feet propped up on its surface. "You might know how to move like a fox when the farmer is after him but you sure aren't too perceptive, kid."

Eddie really opened his eyes then, realizing where he was. Only once before had he seen the lobby of Preceint 24, on his first day after being assigned to the Raccoon police. He had met William Brown then…and Benjamin Tredd. Had that day even really happened at all? It seemed so long ago to Eddie, almost as if it were someone else's memory.

Once again Eddie was struck by the immensity of the reception area – and the lonely emptiness of it. On that first day of his assignment Officer Gabbor had though Preceint 24 to be more of a museum than a police station. Today though, the sheer size of the department wasn't what caught Eddie off guard. No, the people occupying it were quite a sight as well.

There were nine black-clad SWAT troopers standing scattered about the room – granted three of them were laying across the floor, ragged bloody gashes criss-crossing their bodies. Eddie felt a pang of guilt for the dead men. He had led the Stalkers here and that was most definitely their work. More deaths to lay at his feet.

Of the troopers still standing though, Eddie recognized one as Sam Brocket. He had been assigned to the west barricade as well but Eddie had only spoken with the man in passing – stuff like "Hey" and "Rough night huh?" – whether the man was a close friend or not, hardly mattered to though. The young officer was overjoyed that someone else had survived the slaughter that took place there.

Eddie's elation doubled as he caught sight of the raven-haired woman on Sam's right. He had spoken at length with Kathryn Ward during his stay at the west blockade. Kathy seemed to have taken it upon herself to make all the new transfers feel welcome and though he had thought the woman's behavior patronizing at first, Eddie had grown to enjoy their conversations and her easy smile. Frowning, he wondered why she was starring so intently at Sam with a look that was as close to confusion as the rookie had ever seen her wear.

William was there too, of course, towering over the much younger man. Shank, still seated behind the reception desk was casually cleaning his fingernails with the point of a long-bladed boot knife. Tech – apparently the rat-faced man had not fallen behind after all – stood to the big man's right appraising a tear in his jacket sleeve and scowling at nothing in particular as seemed to be his way.

Eddie rubbed his sore eyes when he noticed the final occupants of the precient's lobby – thinking that perhaps he was hallucinating and the five men arranged in a loose semi-circle around Captain Brown and himself were nothing more than a figment of a sleep deprived mind. It was possible, surely, but why would he have imagined soldiers? Eddie was still debating in his head whether or not the group of men in camouflage body armor were real when one of their number – a fellow with gritty subtle across his face and eyes filled with as much sorrow and exhaustion as William's – stepped forward and answered the question for the rookie.

"You look a little surprised to see us. Captain Brown said your name was Ed Gabbor? I'm Lieutenant Zeke Wilcott." The man was real all right. You couldn't get much more white-boy when your name was Zeke and Eddie surely would not have dreamed up a bunch of scruffy, gun totting white-boys – well, one of them was a brother but nevermind that – to take his mind off his troubles. No, for a situation of this magnitude Halle Berry wearing nothing but a smile would have been a much more likely – and pleasant – mirage.

"Nice to meet you, lieutenant." Eddie said, slowly rising to his feet to shake the soldier's hand as he introduced the other members of his squad. Eddie nodded to each in turn. "Enjoying our quiet little town so far?"

"It does seem to have a fair share of…surprises." Zeke replied, eyes wandering to the bodies of the three dead SWAT officers, no doubt wondering what exactly had taken the lives of the three men. Then again, if he had survived this long, the lieutenant and his men had probably already bumped into their share of the nightmarish delights Raccoon City had to offer.

"No shit." Tech mumbled, examining the rip in his sleeve.

"What the hell were those things?" Sam said, nodding towards the front doors.

"I highly doubt any of us want to know the answer to that question." Eddie sighed, reaching down to rub his sore ankle. He must have fallen on it when he toppled off the sandbags. "What I want to know is how you got rid of them. Those things ate everything we had and still looked hungry for more."

"Those buggers know when they're outmatched." The man Zeke had named as Wesley said with a crooked grin. That grin quickly turned to a frown when his eyes fell across the tattered remains of the three SWAT troopers though.

"Put enough lead in the air and they turn tail pretty fast." William said. "We had quite the advantage with Montigo on the roof and Corporal Cooper as well."

Eddie nodded, Montigo, he would have to remember that name. Turning, his eyes ran over Shank once more and the young officer furrowed his brows in puzzlement.

"Where's your friend?" He asked. "Slugger? He's okay right?"

"Huh?" The biker gave a start when he was addressed and hissed irritably as he nicked his finger with the tip of his knife. "Damn it. Oh, Slugger? Yeah, he's fine, the doc is looking him over now. Just a little sprain so I'm sure he'll be back on his feet and dancing in no time. Then again, after hearing what the good captain had to say it is far more likely we're all officially and royally boned. Go on, Captain Willy, tell the kid what you told us a minute ago – what with him being unconscious at the time and all."

William sneered at the bearded man, clearly not caring for the suggestive nickname, as he eased himself into a guest chair. "As I already explained to these…_gentlemen_…our situation here is not good. We're low on ammunition, our food and water won't hold out for more than a couple weeks, none of the department's radios are working right and – " the captain's gaze fell across the three men laying in bloody heaps on the tile floor, " – we're running low on manpower. Sergeant Thompson and his team still haven't returned. At least they got the generators running again though."

With that William trailed off, lowering his head into his hands and tugging at his brown locks. Eddie gave the man a confused, considering look before Lieutenant Wilcott stepped in to take up the tale anew.

"After losing contact with the blockades throughout the city," Wilcott began, "your captain tells me he assembled a team to sweep the streets for any survivors. They found a large group of civilian refugees instead, which were brought back to the station. Unfortunately, upon arriving, Captain Brown discovered that the forces he had left behind to safeguard the precient were engaged in a street battle with those…zombies outside."

"Zombies!" Shank laughed, a wild, nervous sound. "Something for everyone."

"In any case," Zeke continued after giving the gruff biker a wry look, "Captain Brown was left with no choice but to lead the survivors through the station's only other entrance: the parking garage. If I have my facts straight then someone forgot to close the gate to the parking level and some of the carriers – at least we _think _those things are the carriers of this mystery virus – were able to get in. Captain Brown and those accompanying him were caught off guard. Only one of the civilians and a handful of William's men made it back alive."

Out of the corner of his eye Eddie could see William's shoulders shaking violently and he gripped his hair so hard the rookie though the burly captain intended to yank it out by the roots. He was sobbing. _William Brown _was sobbing? Somehow that didn't seem possible but Eddie had to remind himself, none of what happened that night seemed possible.

_'Like Ben getting eaten alive by a few hundred dead cannibals, right?'_ The contemptuous voice in his head rambled. _'Or Howard getting his head sliced off by something out of a John Carpenter flick. Who would have guessed that, eh?' _Eddie closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to shake the voice away. _'Shut up! Leave me alone!' _

"Some good came of it though." Zeke said in an unsteady voice, glancing warily at the weeping captain. "The civilian is a doctor – Greg Burke – who's tending to – uh – Slugger now as well as my pilot. The creatures outside have also…dispersed as you saw on your way in here."

Sam snorted at that and glowered at Wilcott, his voice dripping acid. "Yeah, only after they figured out no fresh meat was coming out for them to chew on."

"Woah, woah, woah." Eddie said, throwing his hands up. "Your _pilot_ is hurt? How exactly are you planning on getting us out of this nightmare then!"

"They aren't." Sam said, his tone could have peeled the finish from a ship's hull. "They never were. Go ahead and tell him, _lieutenant._"

Zeke shot the SWAT trooper a guarded look then simply sighed and shrugged his shoulders. "My unit was sent in along with three others," he said, "to reinforce the defenses at the blockades surrounding the city. On our way here though there was an accident – our chopper's engine overheated and we were forced to make a crash landing. Shortly after we were attacked by a large group of those…things, the zombies."

"Great." Eddie mumbled to himself, having some idea of where this was leading.

"Our commanding officer along with the rest of our chalk was killed during the attack." Zeke went on unabashed but his eyes flickered with remembered horror. "My team and I ran from the crash-site and tried to get into contact with the other Ranger units, unfortunately no one answered our call at first but I managed to get a hold of Captain Haag who said his unit had also been overwhelmed by the – by the zombies. He told me that he was going to try and make it here along with the survivors of his chalk. He – "

"Let me guess," Eddie held up a hand to quiet the lieutenant. "He still hasn't shown up either?" Zeke nodded grimly. "Perfect, that's just perfect. I still don't see why that means you can't just call in more of your boys to come and pick us up though."

"They can't do that," Sam said in a bitter tone, interrupting Lieutenant Wilcott again and earning another hard look from the Ranger, "because we could all be infected with this Raccoon Syndrome too! Not to mention the Army is a little nervous about sending in more men after _four _teams of highly trained, heavily armed personnel are almost totally wiped out by things no one with any sense would believe!" Sam looked ready to burst but Kathy lay a hand tenderly across his shoulder and he settled for a defeated sigh instead.

"I got off the horn with command shortly before you arrived." Zeke said, turning his gaze back to Eddie. "General Bosa won't be sending in any help until he's had a chance to 'better asses the situation' down here. No more troops are coming. No more rescue choppers are coming. We're on our own for the time being."

Eddie slumped his shoulders, feeling much more tired than he had all night. "So much for being lucky." He muttered.

"It gets better." Zeke said, running a hand through his sweaty hair and Officer Gabbor could see it in the man's eyes that by "better" he meant worse. "Until General Bosa gets back to me I won't know for certain but there's no doubt in my mind that the military won't remain idle for long. They'll be forced to take action at some point – before things get even more out of hand."

"What do you mean?" Kathryn asked, concern plain as day in her voice.

"Panic fire." One of the other Rangers said, a stone-faced man leaning against the back wall with a bolt-action rifle resting against his shoulder. "Basically the president gives the green light and this whole place gets fire bombed until its just dust and ashes. Every trace of the virus gets destroyed – along with everyone still inside the city."

"Meaning we need to blow this pop stand before the prez pushes the button." Shank said, taking his boots off the desk and sheathing his Bowie knife once more. "Of course that just means running across a city filled with a few hundred thousand _zombies _and a shit load of other nasties straight out of a Stephen King novel. Oh, and if that wasn't enough we have to do this all on foot since the fucking parking garage is overrun with those things! Good fucking luck, right?"

"There may be another option." Everyone in the room jumped as the sound of a new, crisp, matter-of-fact picked up on the end of Shank's sentence. Eddie watched as the newcomer strode forward, looking at Lieutenant Wilcott.

He was a tall man, nearly a whole head taller than the young officer. The glasses perched on the edge of his upturned nose gave the man a stately, knowledgeable look – like a scholar of old. Eddie could see traces of blood standing out against the blue of his shirt.

"We're open to suggestions, doc." Zeke said with a nod. So that was Doctor Burke.

"Saint Jude's has a number of helicopters in its employ," Burke said, pushing up the glasses on his nose, "used for retrieving drowning victims, hikers that become lost in the Arklay Mountains as well as flying in patients from other states. If both the helicopters are still on the landing pad they should be able to carry all of us to safety. I believe Mr. Shank and Mr. Tech already expressed an interest in going to Saint Jude's as well, yes?"

The two bikers nodded and Shank added: "We _are _going there. I'm not leaving my crew behind in this hellhole."

"There're a lot of ifs in that plan doc." Zeke said critically. "The hospital might be closer than the city limits but it's still a long way on foot."

"Of course," Burke nodded. "Of course, it would mean a trip to the parking garage. Now, that does sound dangerous, yes, but I have noticed that these – um – zombies…are rather slow. We should be able to maneuver around them easily enough while Captain Brown and Lieutenant Wilcott provide cover for the rest of us. That is, of course, provide the captain is willing – "

William was on his feet in an instant, yanking back the bolt on his MP5. His eyes were red-rimmed and exhausted but determined and firm all the same. Now that was more like the William Brown Eddie remembered from their first meeting so long ago.

"I'm willing." The brawny captain said, slinging the submachine gun around his neck. "I want some revenge on those bastards anyways."

Doctor Burke nodded, seeming to take everything in stride as he causally rolled his sleeves down once more. "There is…one other thing of course."

"What's that?" Zeke asked as the physician's pause became more drawn out.

"Well," Burke began, his gaze flickering from person to person in the room cautiously as if he feared any one of them might strike him in a moment. "I think it is quite apparent that we cannot allow this virus to spread to outlaying areas. This means, of course, that we cannot bring anyone already infected with whatever the disease those things are carrying to Saint Jude's with us."

The grave, foreboding silence that followed Doctor Burke's words greatly perplexed Eddie. _'Why are they all just standing around like lumps?' _The officer wondered, looking at all those long faces starring down at their toes.

"That's cool though, right?" Eddie asked slowly, wary to break to atmosphere that seemed to forbid speech. "No one here is sick…right? Right? Why are you all looking at me like that?"

Author's Note: Another chapter is up for you, my Readers. Please read and review when you keep a chance, your feedback keeps me inspired and writing after all. I hope you enjoy.


	17. Part Of The Job

**Chapter 16: Part Of The Job**

October 2, 1998

12:20 AM

Saint Jude's Hospital

Saint Jude's looked more like a ghost town than a hospital to Blaze – everything he had seen so far, from the ground floor to the top, led the biker to question if people had ever inhabited the building in the first place. Deserted was the word for the hospital but in any event the Psychos Inc leader was only too happy for the utter lack of people occupying the grounds. He had not cared much for the few folks he had bumped into while exploring the building.

_'People?' _The big man though, easing him self down into a plastic chair pulled up against one wall. _'Nah, those weren't people. People don't walk around with half their skin falling off looking like they don't even notice. People don't take four slugs through the chest and keep on comin'. _People _don't lurch around the corner and take a fucking _bite _out of your arm.'_

Blaze rolled his torn sleeve up and glanced down at the angry red teeth marks standing out against the flesh of his forearm. Those bastards – whatever they were – could sure bite hard. In truth, the biker didn't think the wound was all that serious. It had stopped bleeding a few minutes ago and while it did itch like the dickens Blaze was sure that would subside shortly as long as he didn't pick at it.

"I can't believe I let that fucker get the jump on me." The Psychos Inc leader muttered to him self. The complete and absolute emptiness – the loneliness – of the emergency room reception area wasn't unnerving him at all – no sir – but the sound of his own voice did help the biker to think more clearly. No, nothing to do with the eerie silence suffocating the place – that was ridiculous. "I should have just stayed put after Shots got Boomer settled. Shit, how was I supposed to know that guy would try and have me for a midnight snack? He looked just like a doctor in that lab coat. Mother fucker came out of nowhere."

In retrospect, Blaze though that he really _should _have just planted his fat can in a chair and waited for Shots to come and get him but after arriving at the hospital litter under two hours ago it had become apparent there was nothing more Blaze could do for his injured crew member. Shots was the wizard surgeon – or had been – not him. So, in an effort to quash any feelings of restlessness and distract himself from the mounting concern over his oldest friend, the Psycho's founded had taken it upon himself to peruse the grounds in search of any other survivors, specifically doctors that could lend Shots a hand with stitching up Boomer.

All the man had found however was a whole lot of nothing. Oh, there had been plenty to look at – cold, sterile hallways that reeked powerfully of harsh sanitizers wormed every which way, forming a confusing nexus of intertwining corridors, all as bland and uninteresting as the ones that came before it. No, actually that was not entirely true. A few times the hallways had been littered with glass from shattered fluorescent lights, leaving parts of the hospital cloaked in menacing shadows. Or sometimes a winding corridor would twist past a patient's room – sans the patient of course – where the nightstand had been turned on its side, or blood covered the mattress from top to bottom or one of the windows appeared as if the room's occupant had chosen to fly the coup in the most literal way and had hurled him or herself through the plate glass. Not to mention the smell of the place. Saint Jude's stank from head to toe of dried blood and industrial cleansers. Something Blaze found sweetly ironic – and nauseating.

Yes, there was certainly plenty of interesting things to look at and wonder over – what Saint Jude's was lacking in great quantities was _people. _In a city gone mad the Psycho's lead had expected to find a rather large proportion of Raccoon's population holed up in the hospital nursing everything from a bullet in the gut to a pipe wrapped around the head. Instead, all Blaze found was some broken glass and a few creepy looking hospital bedrooms. Not a soul though – until that doctor had reeled around the corner on the second floor of the ER and helped himself to a piece of Blaze's forearm.

Wiping sweat away from his forehead with the back of his hand – he seemed to be perspiring quite a lot now for some reason – Blaze leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. The scene played through his mind again like a movie localized inside his skull.

_The floor above the emergency room was just as foul smelling and deserted as the lobby below it. Blaze walked down another long, empty hallway that forked at the end, the path disappearing to the left and right but a nurse's station lay directly ahead of him. Maybe the phone cradled atop the pearl-shaded desk actually worked, unlike the one he had found in the nurse's booth downstairs. _

_Pacing slowly forward, the sound of his own footfalls the only thing to be heard in that cramped, lonely corridor, Blaze hoped Shots was having more luck with patching up Boomer than he was with finding help. That was when he heard it. A strange noise for a hallway in a hospital – a soft, whispering sound like a hand being drawn across dry leaves._

_"Is anyone there?" He asked, fishing around inside his jacket and drawing one of his Browning's – just in case._

_There was no answer – save for a soft grunt. Blaze rounded the corner…and stopped when he saw the figure standing stooped over in the hall. Once during a fight in Madison the Psychos Inc leader had shattered a bottle of whisky over an opponent's head and then rammed his face through the table where he was seated. That fellow had certainly walked away looking in much better condition than the man facing him now in a filthy lab coat. _

_The man – a doctor by the look of his white coat and polished black loafers – stood a head shorter than the burly biker, greasy brown hair clinging to the edges of an otherwise bald scalp. With a tortured moan the doctor craned his neck up, revealing bloodshot pupils and a face as white as a sheet. And just as blank. There was nothing left in the man's eyes: no intelligence, no emotion, no nothing. He just looked…hollow._

_"Hey, you okay?" Blaze asked, knowing it was a stupid question just by looking at the physician. He clearly was _not _okay._

_That once pristine lab coat was now caked in dry blood and other dark patches of nameless refuse. A thick gash on the man's neck spilled crimson fluid down the collar of a blue shirt. Raising his arms limply the doctor staggered forward and Blaze was horrified to see dripping bits of unidentified gristle hanging from beneath yellowed fingernails. Then the smell hit him – a stench much akin to a gas stop washroom he had once been forced to use outside Wyoming…no, the man stank worse than that actually. _

_"You just back up now, you hear doc?" Blaze said, ashamed at how his voice broke in mid-sentence. He knew he should back away from the shambling figure but found his thick legs rooted to the ground. Those piercing red eyes seemed to hold him in place. "Doc?"_

_The man was getting far too close for comfort now. Blaze extended one well-toned, hair-covered arm to ward the doctor off – an arm the man seized eagerly and with surprising strength. Too stunned by the might those limp arms possessed, the biker watched in mute terror as the physician pulled his head forward and sank cracked teeth into the meat of the Psycho's forearm. He felt no shame in crying out when the doctor tore a bloody chunk from his appendage._

_"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Blaze bellowed, throwing the crazed doctor across the floor and leveling his pistol. No one so much as _touched _the big man without his express permission without risking death. This prick had _bit _him. The man staggered back to his feet and Blaze opened fire._

_Four ragged holes erupted in a rough line across the man's chest, blood dribbled from the wounds, further staining an already filthy lab coat. The doctor did not so much as pause one step or bat an eyelash. He continued forward like…like a zombie Blaze realized. _

_Raising his arms the physician uttered another anguished wail and shuffled forward again. Blaze fired once more, this time sending a 9mm round straight through the man's right temple. The body slumped to the floor and he took off at a dead run, gripping his bleeding arm tight._

Snapping back to the present Blaze glanced down at the teeth marks standing out on his forearm. Everyone in this city belonged in a crazy house. Irritably, the Psycho's Inc leader scratched at the wound – it felt as if a fire had been kindled beneath the surface of his skin.

"I hope the other guys are alright." Blaze muttered to himself as he ran his fingernails along the bite, realizing how quite things had gotten all of a sudden – not that it bothered him at all, of course. "I didn't want to leave them like that but I had no choice. It was either burn rubber or get sliced and diced like Howie. No, they'll be fine, Shank can keep their heads together and even that pig seemed to have a pretty good hold of him self. Cold eyes though. It's just taking them awhile to get here is all. Still, those fuckers were fast and…"

Shaking his head Blaze told himself to shut up. His crew could handle whatever this city had to throw at them – no matter how insane it might be. Monsters were nothing compared to some of the demons in their pasts. You could fight monsters you were helpless against memories. They would show up soon, it was just taking awhile.

Sighing, the biker tried to stop thinking about the rest of the Psychos Inc gang – he had suffered some powerful anxiety attacks in the past simply because he thought about things too much. Instead, Blaze used the moment of quiet to study his new surroundings. Like every other area in Saint Jude's there was little to look at in the lobby.

The walls and floors were made of the same sterile tiles and reeked of the same detergents as every other wing in the hospital. The double glass front doors leading out into the streets had been barricaded using vending machines and a few wooden benches but whoever had done the barricading was long gone – something the biker was thankful for after seeing what some of the staff members were like. The nurse's station down the hall to his right was empty and the phone disconnected. The elevator around the corner on Blaze's left stood frozen in place. The only clue that anyone had ever been inside Saint Jude's were a few scattered papers on the floor outside the nurse's station and several footprints in the dust by the elevator.

"Fucking ghost town." Blaze sighed, pulling his sleeve down. Scratching brought no relief and he certainly did not want to risk the gash becoming infected. "I should just go back and tell Shots this place is about as lively as a funeral – sure fits the whole mood of this freak show."

With another defeated sigh Blaze pushed himself to his feet and started towards the elevator, pistol in hand – just in case. He had left Shots with Boomer in one of the rooms on the third floor, he'd just have to hope the man had sense enough not to go wandering around like he had. No, Shots would never leave a patient – let alone a friend like Boomer.

Blaze reached for the button to summon the lift – and stumbled a foot backwards, raising his weapon as the doors slid open of their own accord, framing two tall figures. Two figures dressed from head to toe in black combat gear, holding a pair of automatic rifles trained on his heart. The couple appeared alien in the gas masks that hid their faces, the bright red goggles looking like a set of giant insect eyes.

_'Who the fuck are these goons?' _The biker wondered silently as the pair regarded him with tilted heads, obviously seeming more than a little surprised. _'Military types by the looks of them. Shit, that's the first good news I've gotten all day.'_

"Who are – " Blaze's words were lost in the thunder of automatic fire as both rifles opened up at the same time. A total of fourteen rounds tore through the Psycho's barrel chest, exiting out his back. Blaze staggered back a step, face contorted in pain. He was dead before he hit the floor.

- Page Break -

Rico Da Silva gazed down at the man he had just killed and wondered why he felt no remorse in the action. He had no idea who the fellow was, had no reason to wish him any ill and yet he had just shot the man dead where he stood. Should he not have felt some degree of regret, some pang of guilt that he had just murdered a hapless victim of a tragic accident? Rico supposed he should have but all he could bring himself to feel was…nothing. That was the only word for it.

For the first time in his life Rico wondered if all his years working for Umbrella had desensitized him to the realities of his profession. Perhaps all the death he had both seen and dealt for the company over the years had caused the line between right and wrong, good and evil, to become so blurred it no longer even mattered. Could one really lose their conscience that way? The major supposed they could.

Then again, that line could have become blurred well before he had joined the corporation. Back in the Basques Rico had cut throats with the best of them but that had been in the name of revolution not corporate greed. Rico could hardly recall the last time he had felt any empathy for those he killed, in fact, he could not recall having done so at all. Rico Da Silva killed people, that was just part of his job, he had merely learned to accept that fact.

_'Besides,' _Rico thought, edging out of the elevator with Sergeant Petrovsky on his right, keeping his rifle trained on the downed man. _'You've got bigger problems to worry about right now.' _

Indeed he did. Smith was _not _going to be happy when he heard about this. A survivor this close to a White Umbrella facility was certainly going to ruffle the man's feathers. Rico did not particularly care about his supervisor's feelings but from past experience the major was well aware that when Smith got into a mood everyone around the man paid for it.

Smith, just thinking the name caused Rico to grind his teeth in aggravation. On paper the mission might be the major's to command but it was Smith who had taken over giving orders. In fact, that was precisely why Rico and Boris were in the ER's reception area in the first place. Smith wanted them to plant the C-4 charges while he took the rest of the squad to secure the sample.

"You don't trust me to take care of it, do you?" Da Silva had asked after emerging from the sewers and into the hospital's basement. He had been talking about retrieving the sample.

"On the contrary, major," Smith had replied in such a patronizing way that Rico knew the man was smiling behind his mask. "It's a task I would not trust to anyone else."

Rico snarled at the memory. Clearly, Smith had been talking about the sample too. Still, as mad as he was the major could still feel surprise tickling the back of his head as he looked down at the corpse splayed on the floor. Truly, he had not expected anyone to have survived the outbreak this long – especially someone as gruff and wild looking as the man in the leather jacket.

"Sir?" Petrovsky said, glancing at Rico as he nudged the body with his foot. "What should we do about this one?"  
"Check him out." Replied Rico after a moment's thought. "See if you can find any identification on him. Maybe he's not as ordinary as he looks if he's made it this far. I'm going to check in with Smith."

Boris nodded as Rico stalked away and set to work picking inside the man's jacket without hesitation. Rico would have to recommend Petrovsky for a promotion when they got back – at least he could be counted on to do as he was told. Major Da Silva was not sure he could trust the rest of his team so much, especially with Smith pulling strings now.

"Smith, this is Da Silva, come in." Rico said into the radio clipped to his shoulder. "Smith, do you read?"

"Yes, yes." Came the grainy answer a moment later. "What is it, major?"

"Petrovsky and I found a survivor." Rico replied and smiled, wishing he could have seen the look on his supervisor's face. "He's male, probably in his forties, long hair, big beard, has a funky leather jacket too. Nametag on it reads 'Blaze'. Cute huh?"

There was s short pause on the other end of the radio before Smith's voice came back. Rico frowned when he heard how cool and plain it sounded. "Thank you for the update, major. Do you have any other news?"

Again, the Latino gritted his teeth before answering. "Smith" had certainly changed a great deal from the man he used to know. "No, but I was wondering how you and my boy scouts are getting along down there. Any progress?" Rico made no attempt to keep the irritation out of his voice.

"Progress is a slow process, major." Smith replied in that unfeeling tone of his. "I will keep you apprised of any changes in our situation. Over and out."

The man was impossible, Rico thought as he balled the hand not gripping his rifle into a tight fist. So, Smith thought he was calling the shots now did he? Well that man might find himself in for a surprise before the night was through.

As it turned out, Rico was the one in for the surprise as a gunshot rang out behind him. Whirling about the B.O.N.E.S. commander half raised his AK before seeing Boris standing over this "Blaze" character holding a smoking pistol in one hand. A nasty hole had sprouted in the bearded man's forehead while Rico's back had been turned.

"He was infected." Boris explained, his voice nearly as cold and monotonous as Smith's. Rico suppressed a shudder. "I thought it best to act quick, just in case he decided to get back up again."

The major moved over to stand next to the Russian in examining the body. During his search the B.O.N.E.S. trooper had removed the man's jacket, revealing a deep, red, swollen laceration on Blaze's forearm. Apparently one of the carriers had tried to have the unfortunate man for a midnight snack. Rico did feel something then, joy that he had done the man a favor.

"Find anything?" Major Da Silva asked.

"No," Petrovsky answered with a shake of the head. "There was some cash in his wallet but no ID. He was armed though, an expensive pair of nine-millimeters."

Rico stared down at the corpse frowning. Armed but no ID? Something smelled fishy. The man was probably just a vagrant, moving from town to town begging for quarters – or an Umbrella spy. Maybe sent in along with Smith to undermine his command of this operation. No, no that was unlikely. Smith was just making him paranoid.

"He was probably just a drifter." Rico said at last, still not sure he believed his own words. "Whoever he is, he's dead now. Let's set the charges and get back to the others. Keep them out of sight – just in case. Tonight has been the night of surprises after all."

Petrovsky only nodded and set to work digging the explosives out of his rucksack. Once the charges were in place Rico could blow them from Tahiti if he wanted. Watching Boris work the major reminded himself again to recommend the Russian for a promotion.

Waiting for the other man to finish placing the C-4, Rico glanced over his shoulder at the bullet-riddled body lying in a pool of blood on the once immaculate tile floor. He wondered why civilians were fair game tonight but spooks like Smith were off limits. Rules, the major supposed.

_'Rules are made to be broken though.' _A wry grin split Rico's face as he cocked the bolt of his rifle.

Author's Note: Here's the new update, Readers. I hope you enjoy, stay tuned for another update soon. Read and review when you get the time. Thank you.


	18. Autographs and Ammunition

**Chapter 17: Autographs and Ammunition**

October 2, 1998

2:00 AM

Preceint 24

Skip Francis could hardly believe his eyes. Seated at the desk across from him, one bandaged leg propped up on a chair, was _the _greatest baseball legend of his generation. Kyle Madigan, home run hero of the Pittsburgh Pirates, was no more than four feet away.

Of course, Kyle no longer seemed to be using his real name anymore. The name sewn across the front of his jacket – an absolutely boss thing with the design of a skull breathing blue smoke on the back and the words "_Psychos Incorporated" _stenciled below – read "_Slugger". _ The nickname certainly fit but Skip still wondered what in the world an all-star like Kyle Madigan was doing running with a group of thugs like the two other men seated near him. Only one of the others wore the Psychos Inc jacket but both he – his name seemed to be Tech – and Madigan seemed to look to the other fellow for direction.

Currently, Doctor Burke was tending to the trio. He had wrapped a bandage around Madigan's sprained ankle and refastened Tech's sling. Now, the doctor was in the process of cleaning and bandaging the tattered mass of skin on the third man's – the others referred to him as Shank – left arm. Slugger, Tech and Shank…certainly a colorful lot Skip thought.

Peering intently at Madigan as Burke went about his work Skip nodded to himself, that _had _to be the same man he had grown up watching play ball. He had seen every game Madigan had played on TV; cheered at every run batted in and gaped at every ball driven out of the park and into next week by the man. Skip would have wagered his last stitch of clothing – the only worldly possessions he had left since being driven from his apartment and the destruction of his Suburban – that underneath that Viking-style beard and few extra pounds was one of the greatest right-fielders to ever play the sport.

"Damn it, doc!" Shank groaned as Burke began to tie off the bandage. "Not so tight, I have a lot of good memories with this arm you know?"

"Ain't that the truth." Madigan – or Slugger as he called himself now – smirked, making a fist and pumping it up and down over his crotch. Both Shank and Tech nearly dropped to floor laughing, Burke merely muttered an apology and set to loosening the cotton dressing.

Greg Burke seemed like a pretty righteous dude to Skip, if a little uptight but all doctors seemed to be that way in his experience. Uptight or not you couldn't help but respect a man who was up at two in the morning, tirelessly working away with what meager resources he had, tending to the injuries of total strangers. Besides, Zeke said the doc had a plan to get them all out of the city and Skip _definitely _respected anyone who could do that. Heck, if Burke's plan worked he'd do the man's laundry for the rest of his natural life without complaint.

Yawning into his fist, Skip shook his head. He was tired – everyone in the station was – but there was no way he was going to get a wink of sleep tonight. After everything he had seen tonight he was nervous to so much as blink. '_You could hit me with an elephant tranq and I still wouldn't go down. No way am I sleeping, not here, no way.' _

The young man had moved to Raccoon for two reasons: to escape his parents and obtain a degree as a liberal artist. Unfortunately, he had to arrive in town only a few months before everyone went stark raving mad…though butt-fucking crazy was a better term. Granted, that did suit his luck.

Skip had never been a very fortunate guy. His last girlfriend had dumped him the day of their graduation and his car had broken down while driving to a rather important job interview last month. Raccoon City becoming a death trap was just the crown jewel on a myriad of bad experiences.

_'Bad?' _Skip thought, watching as Burke finished with Shank's arm and moved to double-check Tech's sling. '_No, this is so far beyond bad that there isn't even a word for it. People eating people, those things in the parking garage and then a fucking _giant _to top it all off! Not to mention those things that attacked the station a few hours ago. Zeke said they looked like frog-gorillas…with claws. Yeah, this is definitely worse than bad.' _

Skip tightened his hold on the baseball bat as if it were a talisman at the remembrance of the decaying hands reaching for him in the elevator and the horrid, scuttling beasts that had cut his car up like a tin can. For the first time that night Skip Francis wondered why he was still alive.

He didn't know his ass from his elbow in a gunfight and bravery was not something the young man carried a great stock of. By all rights Skip figured he should have been killed at least three or four times by now – or at least lost his mind. Yet, miraculously, neither had happened. This made Skip eternally grateful to whatever power had sought to spare him – and just as suspicious. It did not fit his luck at all.

In truth, the young man knew the answer to his unspoken question. He needed only turn his head around to see the reason for his survival. Zeke Wilcott stood back there, smiling as he conversed with Rachel, who looked pale and wan but lucid all the same. Every so often though the lieutenant would shift his gaze up from the pilot's waxen face and look uneasily at the door to Captain Brown's office on the second floor.

Skip wondered why the Ranger looked so anxious, as if he expected someone – or, more likely, some _thing _knowing Raccoon City – to dart out of the room at any given moment and attack. Again, knowing what the city was like Skip guessed that was not such an unlikely prospect but as far as he knew the only people occupying the room now were one of the SWAT troopers they had run into outside , a stout looking woman and the burly Captain Brown himself. It was true that Skip did not know any of them well at all but they hardly seemed the types to launch an ambush on the group.

Then again, if whatever was going on up there made Zeke nervous Skip supposed it should do the same for him. The lieutenant was definitely a solid dude: he had a lightning quick mind and nerves that just would not bend. If it hadn't been for Zeke and his team showing up when they had Skip figured he'd probably still be squatting in that filthy elevator shaft trying to make his pathetic supply of provisions hold out while hoping against hope that help would arrive soon. Either that or dead.

_'Well, help is here now.' _Skip thought, nodding his head resolutely. _'All I have to do is stick with the army guys until we get to the hospital Burke was talking about and everything will be cool. We'll be out of this shit hole in no time, I'll catch a flight to New York, find a hotel, have a shower and then give my folks a call. Their offer to move back in anytime I wanted seemed a little overbearing at the time but it's sure going to come in handy now. God, I hope the doc's plan works.' _

Well, Zeke seemed to trust Doctor Burke, so Skip figured he should too. The doc's plan _would _work and he _would _be home faster than he could blink. And Skip Francis would not be returning empty handed either.

Rising from his chair the young man walked slowly over to where Madigan rested puffing a cigarette between his lips. The closer he came the louder his heartbeat until Skip could barely hear above the rush of blood in his ears. Madigan did not look up once as he approached but that was hardly surprising to the young man; why would a legend like Kyle Madigan – whatever he was now – pay any notice to a nobody like himself?

"E-excuse me," Skip said as he crossed the distance, jamming his hands into the pouch of his sweatshirt to hide how badly they were shaking. The young man thought it strange that for once that night he was not trembling as a result of blind terror but because he was star struck. It was ironic in an odd way. "Mi-mister Madigan?"

Kyle's – Slugger's – head shot up at the sound of his name and he fixed Skip with a look that was half-surprised, half-angry. Almost as quickly as the look bloomed on his face it vanished and was replaced by a blank stare. Madigan's eyes still flickered though – yes, he was certainly surprised and apparently none too happy about it either.

"I don't know who you're talking about, kid." He said and though the man's voice was as plain as his face there was an undertone to his denial that made Skip doubt its authenticity.

"Come on," the young man chortled a nervous laugh then instinctively took a step backwards. The look in Madigan's eyes was a very dangerous one indeed, not to mention that the other two biker's – Shank and Tech – were directing similar glances his way as well. "You've _got _to be Kyle Madigan, I saw _all _your games man! Your batting average was .290, you hit two grand slams in a single game and stole five bases in another. Oh, and let's not forget how you _totally _robbed Bonds of a homerun with that over the wall grab! That was some sweet shit."

"Look kid," Shank said, walking over next to Slugger and crossing his hairy arms over his impressive chest. Skip took another step back. "You've got the wrong guy so why don't you just waltz back over to your chair and have – "

"Nah, Shank," Madigan interjected, laying a hand on his friend's arm and Skip was more than a little relieved to see the man smile as well. He looked more amused than dangerous now. "It's cool. You've got a pretty good memory kid but that was all a long time ago. I buried Kyle Madigan with his wife years ago."

"Oh, yeah, I uh heard about that on the news." Skip scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, he had never meant for the subject of the man's murdered wife to come up. "I-I'm really sorry for your loss – I am – and I know that it's been quite a while since you've played the game but I would really appreciate it if you would –uh – you know, maybe give me an autograph?"

Madigan just stared at the younger man for a moment, studying him with that half-grin twisting his bearded face. Shank glanced back and forth between both men, looking nervous but obviously trusting his friend to use discretion. Skip continued to scratch at the back of his neck until he realized he was fidgeting and promptly stuffed his hand back into the pouch. Madigan laughed then and gave a short nod.

"Sure kid," he said, "you seem like an alright kind of dude. I'll sign my name for you but only under one condition."

"S-sure!" Skip blurted out, hoping that despite his broad smile and wide eyes he didn't look too much like a giddy fan. "What is it?"

"I'll give you my John Hancock if you trade me that little beauty over there." Madigan said, pointing one thick finger to where Skip's baseball bat lay propped against the leg of his chair. "Earlier this evening I lost my own stick – I won't bore you with the details – and that looks like a pretty solid piece of lumber. So, do we have a deal?"

Skip didn't have to think twice. He hurriedly snatched up the bat and handed it to the other man with a grin. "Deal." He said.

"Now we're talking." Madigan said, hefting the Louisville wood, testing its weight and giving it a short practice swing. With a smile and approving nod the biker rested the bat in his lap and turned to the desk beside him. Picking up a pen, Madigan lifted one of the file folders off the ground tore the cover off then set to work jotting across the front.

"Here you go, kid. Enjoy." Slugger said with a smirk after he had finished, handing the folder cover over to Skip.

Murmuring his thanks the young man eagerly grabbed hold of the scrap that contained such a precious treasure. Smiling, Skip felt his heart hammer with excitement as he looked down at the sheet that held the object of his desire. True, it was just a name but it was the name of a sport's hero most thought dead and gone.

Penned across the folder cover in a large, flowing script was the name _Slugger_. The young man read the word twice just to make sure he wasn't seeing things. Sadly, he was not. Looking up, face agape, Skip could see Madigan chuckling. What a grand joke it must have been to him.

With a defeated sigh Skip sagged back into his chair and set the scrap of paper down. He had become a victim of logic. Madigan had said that he had left his old self behind after his wife's murder and donned a new identity as Slugger. So, when he said he would hand over his John Hancock it was only natural to give the one he was now using – Slugger. Of course, he hadn't expected Skip to realize that and he had been right.

_'Well, at least my luck is back to normal.' _Skip though, slouching in his chair while Slugger and his companions shared a good laugh. _'I'm minus a bat and up a worthless autograph. It figures. Maybe – ' _

The voice in Skip's head was silenced as a gunshot resounded in the lobby, echoing from up above on the second floor. Everyone threw back their chairs and leapt to their feet, the assembled SWAT troopers brought their weapons up, scanning in the direction of the sound. Rachel and Zeke did likewise.

A few moments later the door to Captain Brown's office opened and the man himself stepped out. William seemed to have undergone a kind of metamorphosis: his shoulders were slumped, his head hung low, tears burned in his eyes. Drained was the best way to describe the captain's appearance, Skip thought.

William looked up then and a woman's wailing filled the doorway behind him. The captain did not flinch at the sound, though everyone else did. He merely fixed those assembled with that hollow, watery gaze and said in a tone as cold and unfeeling as stone: "Jacob Foster is dead."

- Page Break -

Yawning, Zeke glanced at his watch. It was just before two in the morning but there was still a great deal of work to be done before he could hunker down for an hour or two of shut-eye. Besides, after the night he had been having the Ranger thought an hour or two of sleep was an overly optimistic estimation.

The work was refreshingly soothing to the lieutenant though, lost in the study of a map of the station that William had dug out of his office, Zeke was able to lose himself in his appointed task for several minutes at a time. Burning the entrances and exits of the parking garage into his brain, along with all connecting corridors and passageways, Zeke found himself able to forget – momentarily anyways – about the roving, flesh-eating creatures outside the haven of Precient 24 or the faces of all the friends he had lost to them. To the lieutenant, he was simply puzzling over a map, marking down all the details in his head, as he prepared for a mission – something he had done countless times before. Perhaps the familiarity of such a mundane task was the only thing keeping him sane, Zeke wondered.

"Sir?"

Lieutenant Wilcott looked up from behind his seat at the reception desk at the sound of Scott's hesitant voice. The radioman's face was tight and grim, anxiety dancing madly beneath the surface of his gaze. Zeke sighed, more bad news.

"What is it, Owens?" The Ranger mumbled absently, his attention back to the floor plan stretched out across the table's surface.

"I tried to get through to command again like you said, lieutenant," Scott replied, fiddling with the shoulder strap of his M-4. "I still can't get through. It's the weirdest thing, sir. Sometimes I can get a clear signal and other times everything is scrambled up worse than a trailer park in a twister."

Pausing in his study of the department's blueprints, Zeke looked up at a rather haggard Scott Owens with a considering look. The sergeant was one of the most capable and competent soldiers Zeke had met in his entire career, if Scott didn't know what was going on with his own radio the lieutenant knew he should be worried.

"Any idea what could be causing the interference?" Zeke asked, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands in his lap. "Maybe the radio was damaged in the crash."

"Nah, I checked it while we were back at Skip's place and it was in primo shape." Scott said, pursing his lips and shaking his head. Then the sergeant fixed Zeke with a truly tortured look, sweat beading along his forehead. "My guess is that we're being jammed."

"_Jammed_?" Zeke's voice was somewhere between a snort and a laugh. "How could someone be jamming us? The only ones that know we're here are the guys back at headquarters and they're over three hundred miles away. Even the cops didn't know we were coming for Christ's sake."

"No," Scott agreed, wiping a hand across his face. Zeke didn't think he had ever seen a man look so stressed outside the heat of battle. "No, but their chief did and the mayor too. Maybe they told someone."

"Who exactly is 'someone'? Come on, Scott, this is ridiculous." Zeke said, doing his best to ignore the fact that a great deal of what had transpired already would be deemed ridiculous if related to any person with even a shred of sanity. "Even if they did know, why would a couple of bureaucrats have any reason to try and complicate things for us? And who would they hire to do so anyways? I've talked to Captain Brown a fair bit and he seems to think Brian Irons is more than a little nutty but I doubt the man has the means to build a jamming tower just to make it a pain in the ass for us to call home."

"That's just it though!" Scott breathed, dropping his voice to a harsh whisper as he leaned across the desk. "If the source of the interference was coming from inside the city I either wouldn't be able to get a signal at all or we would have escaped the jamming signal one we got far enough away." Scott's eyes burned brightly, kindled with anxiousness and a deep-seated suspicion Zeke had never seen in the man before. Why was he acting so conspiratorial all of a sudden? "Now, lieutenant we've run across to the other _side _of this city and I'm still getting nothing but static nine times out of ten so we sure haven't outrun whoever or whatever is jamming us. On the other hand, we've received a transmission from Haag and gotten one out to General Bosa so that means the interference isn't continuous."

Zeke raised an eyebrow the man was talking in circles. "What are you trying to say, Owens?"

"What I'm saying," Scott held his tongue for a moment, glancing over each shoulder before continuing, "is that it has to be a local source, real close. If someone had a portable jamming device they could turn it on and off whenever they wanted to block a transmission. They wouldn't have to be far from the radio – they'd probably just have to be in the same room with it."

Realization began to dawn on the lieutenant then as he looked up into Owens' drawn face and felt his own blood turn to ice. "The radio's been on the fritz since we went down in the center of town." Zeke said slowly, his voice distant even to his own ears. "If you're right then that means whoever's been blocking our transmissions is someone in the unit." Scott nodded looking as grim as Zeke felt. The lieutenant leaned forward in his chair staring the other man intently in the face. "Scott…that makes _no sense_ though! Why would one of our own guys try and keep us from radioing home?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, boss." Scott offered with a helpless shrug.

Zeke closed his eyes, pressing his fingertips against his temples as he felt the thunderclouds of a coming headache roll into his skull. _'As if I didn't have enough to worry about already.' _The lieutenant thought. _'Zombies trying to have us for dinner, a wandering giant trying to dice us up into confetti and now this. Nothing going on in this city makes any sense. Is it really too much to hope that one small bit of good luck would find its way to me tonight?' _Probably but Zeke could curse his luck later.

"You haven't told anyone else about this have you?" Lieutenant Wilcott asked glancing back up at Scott while hoping he did not look as exhausted as he felt. Sergeant Owens shook his head the expression on his worn features suggested that Zeke must have been crazy to ever consider such a thing. "Good. Until we have some concrete proof I think we should keep this between ourselves – the last thing we need is everyone getting paranoid of each other. Trust is the one thing we seem to have going our way tonight."

"Are you sure that's a good idea, lieutenant?" Scott asked, leaning in, his tone low and conspiring once more. "If someone is compromising our ability to complete this mission then we – "

" – can only offer hearsay and speculation." Zeke said raising a hand to silence his subordinate. "Trust me Scott, if you're going to bring up charges like that then you better have more to back them up then a hunch. Just keep a lid on it for the time being and stay sharp." The lieutenant's eyes softened then and he exhaled a defeated sigh. "Besides, this mission was a failure from the time we flew into town."

Again, Scott glanced over either shoulder – obviously wary of eavesdroppers – before responding. "Lieutenant, I don't think that's wise. We should – "

"It's not your call, _sergeant_!" Zeke said, firing the man a piercing look and chastising tone. In truth, the lieutenant hadn't meant it to come out so harsh but he was beyond exhausted and Scott Owens should not have been questioning the judgment of his commander. If they were going to make it out of Raccoon City alive then everyone was going to need to have to remember what the chain of command was and to do as they were told. "It's my decision and I've made it. Now, I'm going to go and check on Rachel, if anyone needs me you know where to find me. I suggest you get back on the horn and try to raise General Bosa again – I want to know how things are going on his end."

For a moment Zeke feared that Scott might protest once more. The radioman's brown eyes narrowed and hardened; his lips pressed together in a tight line. Most alarmingly of all, Zeke could see Owens' fingers twitch at his side as if ready to make a fist and strike out. Lieutenant Wilcott breathed a little easier when Scott inclined his head slightly and gave a quick salute.

"Copy that, boss." Sergeant Owens said, before turning sharply on his heel and stalking over to the corner where he had left his radio.

With a considering gaze, Zeke watched the man go. In his heart he knew Scott was a good soldier but his defiant outburst certainly hinted behavior towards the contrary. After a moment, Zeke simply sighed and shook his head, the situation was just making everyone a little stir crazy – that was all. Scooping up his rifle and folding the map under one arm Zeke marched off towards the closed set of double-doors behind him.

On his way out Zeke noticed that the other occupants of the room were still hard at work – at least he didn't need to worry about them questioning orders…yet. The lieutenant had had several of the weapons crates brought out from the backroom, Wesley and Pierce went through them now, making clips as well as cleaning and checking each weapon. Coop was nowhere in sight, which was good for it meant he was where Zeke had left him – watching the front of the station with Captain Brown's men. If another assault was coming then the corporal's SAW would be useful for suppressive purposes.

The two police officers the Rangers had stumbled upon – Sam Brocket and Kathryn Ward – were also present along with Officer Gabbor, arranging sheets over the bodies of the three dead SWAT troopers. Zeke studied the trio for a moment as they went about their macabre task – faces taut and pale but resolute all the same. They must have known their fallen comrades would never receive a proper burial – not for a long while in any event – and yet they were still willing to do all they could to honor the memories of their friends.

Shaking his head – now was not the time to dwell on such things as who would die and be left unburied as a gruesome testament to the insanity of Raccoon – Zeke stepped through the doors. There was somber feel to this part of station though Zeke could not put his finger on what it was exactly – perhaps it was the immense amounts of paperwork scattered so carelessly across the dusty tiles or the pictures of loved ones laying among the shards of their destroyed frames or just the relative emptiness of the hall itself – but there was an almost tangible quality to the room that spoke of panic and abandonment. The Ranger could not think of a more fitting mood given the situation.

Surveying the wide area Zeke could see William's men hard at work sorting through stainless steel weapons cases; cleaning and loading firearms for the trek through the garage just as Wes and Ryan were doing in the front lobby. Skip and the bikers – members of a gang with the cute little moniker of Psychos Incorporated – were also present, as was Doctor Burke who was currently in the process of tying a fresh cotton dressing around the arm of one of the Psychos. Judging by the rather large knife protruding from the man's boot it was Shank who was in need of the doctor's ministrations. Skip watched the doctor go about his rounds, staring at one of the bikers with a dumbfounded expression. Well, maybe the kid had a right to be awed by the fact that there was still other living, breathing people in the city after the night he had had, Zeke figured.

Turning his back on the group of men, Lieutenant Wilcott caught sight of his true target. Rachel Parker lay stretched out across two chairs, her behind planted firmly in one while the other supported her wounded leg. There was a fresh bandage on the injury and a little more color brightened the young woman's cheeks. Rachel still looked far from healthy though, her smooth skin was covered in a sheen of sweat that gave her a sickly glow in the pale light. Despite this, the pilot's eyes were the worst; tight with pain and hinting desperately at the agony she kept within. Zeke smiled warmly as he approached and took a seat on the edge of the desk beside the young woman but still found it hard to meet that watery gaze.

"How are you doing, kiddo?" Zeke asked, still smiling as he set his rifle and the map down.

"First of all," Rachel replied with one her trademark half-grins, "don't call me that. Secondly, I'm hanging in there…all things considered."

Zeke nodded grimly and felt his smile slip. "Hanging in there" was a far cry from being fine but at least Rachel was telling him the truth. The girl knew her limits and was willing to deal with them, things would have been much worse if she were going about insisting that she was all right for fear of slowing the group down.

_'I've got enough to worry about without having to keep Rachel from overexerting herself after all.' _Zeke thought, the smile gone from his lips, replaced now by a thin line. _'What if Burke's plan doesn't work? What if only one of the helicopters is at the hospital – or neither? What if we all get killed in the parking garage? What if _one _of us gets killed in the parking garage, how am I going to deal with that? What if…'_

"Stop it." So lost in his own thoughts was the lieutenant that the sound of Rachel's voice made him reach for his rifle.

"What?" Zeke asked, swallowing his heart and staying his hand in its passage across the desk. "Stop what?"

"Thinking." Rachel replied firmly, narrowing her eyes as if the lieutenant was a young boy and she had caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. "You're acting all zoned out and whenever you press your lips together _that _tightly I can tell you're thinking."

"Sorry," Zeke offered a weak laugh, ashamed at how phony it felt – and sounded. "It is part of my job description though. I assure you that I try to do as little thinking as I can on my days off."

"Quit joking around." Rachel said, her tone all business. "Stop thinking about what's happened and start thinking about what's going to happen. Stop thinking about Judges and Sullivan and the rest – feeling guilty is not going bring them back and it certainly won't help us. There are a lot of people depending on you now, focusing on things you can't change won't do anyone any favors – you least of all."

Lieutenant Wilcott nodded dumbly and stared down at his bootlaces. He certainly never would have thought Major Parker could be so blunt. Could she really have meant everything she said though? Just forget about Sullivan and the others like it never happened? Maybe she did and maybe she didn't but Rachel was right about one thing: there _were _a lot of people depending on him.

Going into the mission probably no one had been looking to Zeke Wilcott for guidance, now over twenty lives rested on his shoulders. More responsibility to sit on his back, more duty to weigh him down – more deaths to burden his conscience should he fail. Staring at his boots, Zeke wondered what he had ever done to deserve such punishment. Rachel's soft, warm hand across his own brushed away the lieutenant's dark ponderings.

"I believe in you, Zeke." She said her voice light and timid but wholly sincere. He smiled back at her in much the same fashion.

"Maybe I should give that a try myself." The lieutenant replied, clasping the girl's hand in his own, locking gazes with her. The warmth of Rachel's bare skin against his own turned Zeke's blood to fire, the electricity in her large, bright eyes stirring his heart to a quicker pace. For a moment – one foolish, reckless moment – Zeke thought about trying to steal a kiss.

_'Great time to be thinking about that, _lieutenant.' The chastising voice in the Ranger's head was oddly reminiscent of Sam Brocket's and Zeke quickly released Rachel's hand, diverting his eyes at the same time. Awkwardly clearing his throat, Zeke smoothed his uniform and picked up his rifle, trying to seem casual but certain that he was failing miserably. _'Nothing is simple.' _The thought was fast-becoming the Ranger's personal motto.

"Where's Captain Brown?" Zeke asked after clearing his throat once more, not daring to look Rachel in the eye. "I wanted to go over our strategy once we reach the garage again just to make sure there aren't any surprises."

"He went up to his office awhile ago," Rachel answered, nodding absently up the staircase, her delicate features drawing together tightly. "He went up with one of the SWAT people we found in the alley – the sick one…I think his name is Jacob. There was a woman too. I-I think she might be his wife, lieutenant."

"Shit." Zeke muttered beneath his breath, shaking his head. It was bad enough the man was going to turn into a member of the living dead but now his spouse would have to watch the slow and agonizing transformation of the man she loved. How long did Jacob have left, Zeke wondered, an hour maybe? Even that was probably being optimistic.

"Do you think he'll be all right, Zeke?" Rachel asked and the quiver in her voice forced the lieutenant to regard her more seriously. Her thin brows were drawn together tightly, concern and fear forming a misty tempest in the pools of her eyes. Zeke sighed.

"I don't know," he replied honestly, shaking his head, "but we'll do everything we can for him, okay?" _'Until we have to shoot him, you mean.' _Zeke shook the thought away, whatever was going to happen would happen, it was out of his hands now.

Rachel nodded sadly – and jumped when a gunshot thundered from above. Reacting almost automatically Zeke brought his rifle up – saw Rachel draw her pistol – and trained the weapon towards the source of the noise. A moment later, the door to William's office swept open, the burly captain framed in the doorway, and woman's sobbing filled the air. William's head was bowed, his face red and damp with tears.

_'Oh, no.'_ Zeke thought, slowly lowering his M-4 as Captain Brown opened his mouth to speak.

"Jacob Foster," William said, "is dead."

Author's Note: Well, it's been awhile but here's a new update for you my Readers. Hopefully I'll be able to get another one up soon that will describe Jacob's death in depth so I hope that you will stay tuned and keep reading. Please read and review when you get a chance, I live for your feedback. Enjoy!


	19. A Friend In Need

**Chapter 18: A Friend In Need**

October 2, 1998

2:00 AM

Precient 24

William Brown had long considered his office more of a trophy room than a place for filing paper work and filling out reports. The space served as a shrine to his personal triumphs, the walls above his desk and the blue sofa in the corner were plastered with plaques he had received at the academy or commendation medals he had been awarded after graduating. The small coffee table in the center of the floor was decorated with the sparkling gold and silver trophies he had won during his days playing college football for the Raccoon Sharks. For Captain Brown the gleaming medals and polished trophies had always been sources of inspiration and pride – now he could think of them only as meaningless trinkets, useless husks of metal arranged in tacky, self-indulgent displays.

His pride – like his city – was in flames, crumbling to ash. So many of the citizens he had sworn to serve and protect now lay dead – or worse, transformed into walking corpses doomed to hunger for human flesh until they, too, crumbled to dust and ashes. William wondered how many people – people he had once known as acquaintances or friends – he had killed that night because if he had not they would have killed him. William wondered how many more he would have to kill yet.

_'Just one more,' _he thought wanly, watching the scene in front of him, _'just one more that really matters.' _

Jacob Foster, his best friend since the two of them were old enough to walk and talk, was dying. He lay stretched out on the couch in William's office, eyes rolling lazily about the ceiling as he mumbled in delirium while his wife kneeled at his side, clutching one hand in between her own.

Balling one meaty hand into a tight fist William felt his heart rise into his throat – he thought he might choke on it. Knowing what he was about to do – because he _had _to do it – was difficult enough but watching Tessa stroke back her husband's damp bangs and murmur words of encouragement in his ear made matters even more complicated. The captain was almost certain he would choke on his heart, if it didn't burst in his throat first.

_'It's not all bad though.' _William thought somberly, looking on dumbly as Tessa tried to quiet Foster's gibberish with gentle smiles and soft touches. All in vain, he knew, all in vain. _'At least I managed to keep Sam away from here – and the other guys for that matter. I'm surprised sneaking away was as easy as it was. Funny how luck can really pick its moments.'_

While it had been fairly simple to relegate duties to Sam Brocket and the rest of his men to keep them occupied, Will knew splitting up Tessa and Jake was just not an option. Thought he would have preferred she was not present for what was about to take place one needed to take only a single look at the woman to see it would take much more than a crowbar to pry Tessa Foster from her husband's side. Ever since his return to the station Tess had not left Jacob alone for a moment; she was everywhere he was, grasping his hand desperately and staring at his ashen face with pained, pleading eyes.

_'It's something I'll just have to deal with.' _William told himself, trying to block out the words Jacob's wife was speaking: talk about how they would go on a vacation when they got out of the city, how she had family the could stay with in Colorado until they found another house – how they could finally make good on their plans to have a baby. Yes, his heart would definitely burst long before it had a chance to strangle him.

_'Maybe she won't even fight me,' _the thought was dark and cold but at least it helped to dilute Tessa's voice – making it seem distant as if part of a TV show playing in the background, rather than hard, unforgiving reality. _'She can see how far gone Jake is. Maybe she won't fight me when she finds out why I had him come up here…maybe she'll think I'm doing him a favor…just helping out a friend in need.' _Shaking his head, William scowled. _'Yeah, fat chance of that happening but it's the only way. Christ, how did it ever come to this?'_

"What's wrong with him, Bill?" Tessa's soft, shaking voice pulled the captain back into the misery of the present. Looking up from where he was leaning against the doorframe William studied the woman who had prepared him dinner so many times, who had slapped him upside the head when he had place his feet atop her coffee table and who had cried the hardest when his wife, Ellie, lost the fight against cancer five years ago.

Tessa's eyes were wide and red, exhausted after having shed so many tears. Her hair, always neatly combed and pulled back hung in disarray about her shoulders, unruly tufts of black locks jutting out at every angle. The hand that held Jacob's shook like a leaf in the wind. William sighed.

"I-I don't know, Tess." He said, pushing off the wall and crouching beside the woman. In a sense, his words were true – no one really knew how this mystery disease, this Raccoon Syndrome, turned ordinary people into flesh eating monsters. The thought made the burly captain all too aware of the fact that neither of them should be as close to Foster as they were. "Sam said one of those…those things outside bit him back at the road block."

_'And thank God he's not here now.' _William thought. _'The way he's been skulking about you'd think he was the one that bit Jake. No, that guy's seen enough killing for a lifetime – and he'll probably see more once we reach the garage – he doesn't need to be here for this.' _

"Does…does that mean he's sick?" Tess asked, sniffing loudly, gently stroking a finger across Foster's knuckles. He responded with a heavy grunt, one leg jerking violently. "Does it mean that he's going to…to…to turn into one of them?"

"I don't know but Doctor Burke seems to think so." William said, breaking the news as tenderly as he could and discovering in the process that there was simply no gentle way to tell someone that a loved one would turn into a mindless cannibal before the sun came up. "He thinks that's how this thing spread so fast. It's the bites – they take them away and they bring them back." _'As murdering zombies. Jesus, I'm so sorry Jake.' _

Will caught Tessa around the shoulders as she lowered her face into both hands, fresh sobs assailing her. Truly, he hadn't meant it to sound so harsh but there was no sense in trying to sugar coat it either. Jacob Foster was going to die.

Idly stroking Tessa's soft hair with the back of his hand William glanced up at Jacob. His friend's face was closed tightly, eyes clenched and lips turned back, obviously in great pain. Sweat soaked every inch of exposed skin and matted his short hair to his scalp. Foster's chest rose and fell each strained, irregular breath – each one a fight. The man was dying and only months ago he had been joking with William over the weather and the eccentric personality of Chief Irons and a host of other things that now seemed as meaningless as the captain's collection of trophies.

While Tubbs' physical suffering must have been great the captain suspected that, emotionally, Tessa was in worse shape. Surely she must have expected the nature of her husband's fate the moment he arrived but to have such frightening suspicions confirmed had to be shattering. Listening to the woman weeping in his arms William thought that maybe "shattering" was far too delicate a word for the current situation.

"There has to be _something _they can do for him!" Tessa shouted, pushing away from William and looking up at him with those deep, pleading eyes, begging him for a shred of hope. "There must be something Burke can think of. He studied this disease didn't he? He worked at Saint Jude's so he must have. He has to know _something _more about it than we do! There's a cure isn't there – even if it's just experimental? Something? _Anything?_"

"In a manner of speaking," William muttered into his bread, eyes fixed on Foster's waxy visage, "there is."

"What do you mean?" Tessa asked, sounding more afraid than hopeful. William wagered she knew the answer he would give even before he gave it.

For a moment – a long moment at that – he merely stared into Tessa's watery, trembling brown eyes. Desperately, Will searched his brain for some other option – another way, _any_ other way around the only solution he had been able to up with. Any alternative would have been preferable to the one had drawn up but his mind was a blank. '_There is no other way.' _Sighing deeply, William drew the Glock strapped to his hip.

"It's the only way." He said.

"William!" Tessa's bloodshot eyes grew even wider, her chin dropping her chest. "_No! _No, he's my _husband_! He's your _friend, _William!"

"Don't you think I know that?" William retorted, unable to keep the edge out of his voice. "Please Tessa, if there was another way – _any _other way – I'd do everything in my power to try it but there's not. Believe me, I've thought long and hard about this and there just isn't any other option left. Look at your husband – _look _at him! – at least let him die while he's still human…" William could feel tears burning in the back of his eyes as he turned his gaze to the ruined vessel of Jacob Foster. "….while he's still Jake."

"No." Tessa replied plainly, stretching herself out across her husband's chest, tears rolling unchecked down her mahogany cheeks. "I'm not going to give up on him. He's _mine, _you can't take him from me!" The rest of her words were lost in a mangled sob as she buried her face in the material of Jacob's vest. He moaned, arching his back.

"Please Tessa, there's nothing more any of us can do for Jake now – except end his suffering." The captain could hear his own words but surely they must have been spoken by someone else out of sight. The William Brown he knew would never speak those words – so cold and callous – about anyone, let alone a man he had known since childhood, a man he loved as a brother. This whole thing had to be one long, wretched nightmare, he thought but no matter how hard he beat against the glass of the illusion it simply would not break.

"_No!_" Tess screamed again, her body quivering as she wept bitterly into Jacob's chest, clutching handfuls of his vest in both hands. "I won't let you hurt him, William!"

"Tessa – " Captain Brown was cut short as Foster inhaled deeply, arching his back at a sharp angle that sent his wife reeling back with a strangled yelp. Jacob spasmed wildly, jerking left then right – once, twice a third time before finally collapsing in a heap on the couch. The squat officer exhaled a soft, nearly in audible hiss and then he was perfectly still. His chest did not rise.

As Tessa quickly clambered back to a sitting position beside the sofa, grabbing Jacob's shoulders and calling his name in a voice far too tiny for her sturdy frame, William looked on in muted shock. All the creatures – all the zombies – he had seen that night had already been walking around. Was that how the transformation took place, he wondered staring at Foster's still body while Tessa pleaded with him to speak to her, one moment of sharp agony before the cannibalistic urges took hold of mind and body? Watching Tess wail and beat at Jacob's chest, demanding he return to her, William knew he should tell her to get back, to get away from Jacob but the captain felt as if he had just swallowed his own tongue.

_'Maybe he won't get back up. Maybe he won't turn into one of them.' _ Will thought wishfully as he found the strength to take a step towards the hysterical woman. _'Maybe there's only a chance of infection or something. Please God don't let him come back as one of them, I don't want to have to kill him!' _ It was a hopeful thought but everything William had experienced that night told him he should know better.

"Tessa," he said at last, the words rolling awkwardly off his tongue at first but coming more easily as he went on. "Get away from Jacob. He's dangerous now."

"No!" She screamed defiantly, protectively – as if meaning to defend her husband even in death – turning her burning, broken gaze on William. "No! He'd never hurt me!"

"You don't understand." Captain Brown scoffed, losing his patience and feeling his anxiety rise as he took another step towards Tessa. How long did they have before the resurrection – before husband and friend would become mindless killer? A minute, minute and a half? "Just get away from him. He's not Jacob anymore!"

"I'm _not _leaving him, William!" She shouted, fires burning in the depths of her worn eyes. Tessa vaulted to her feet, flinging herself at the sunned captain and slapping him hard across his jaw. "How _dare _you do this, William! How _dare _you ask me to leave him! I won't, I tell you, I won…"

Springs creaked and groaned their protest as Jacob Foster sat up. With all the enthusiasm of an automaton he gazed slowly up then down, before turning his eyes – glazed over and obscured by a milky white film – to where William and Tessa stood gaping dumbfounded. '_Oh, God no.' _With a cry – a feral, animal roar – Foster threw himself at his friend, baring his teeth.

"_Run!" _William screamed to Tessa, shoving her roughly across the room while raising his handgun.

The captain turned just in time, face gaping with horror as Jacob drove his shoulder into his stomach, knocking the air from his lungs and the floor from beneath his feet. Uttering a strangled gasp, William was dimly aware of his back hitting the ground and his head with it. Stars of brilliant red and purple hues burst before his eyes, fading in a moment to be replaced by the dead white eyes of a man who had once been William Brown's closest friend.

His survival instincts taking over, Will extended his arms, wrapping thick paws around Jacob's equally thick neck. Terrified by the realization that if he let go – even for a second – Jake would try and take a bite out of his jugular William fought back with every ounce of strength he possessed, trying to force more distance between himself and Foster's wildly gnashing teeth. Unfortunately his friend had not been a small man to begin with and whatever demon had taken him over in death lent the man surprising strength.

"_Jacob!" _Tessa cried from out of sight, William could hear the tears in her voice – and the impossible fear.

_"Get out of here!" _Captain Brown bellowed, his face creased in determination as he grappled with his attacker. Every muscle in his body tensed to hold off whatever Jacob Foster had become. The creature – his _friend _– moaned his irritation. "Get Zeke!"

'_She doesn't even know who Zeke is.' _William thought, it dawning on him that he had never had a chance to introduce her to the Ranger lieutenant. _'Eaten alive by my best friend, what the _fuck _is happening in this city!'_

As strong as he was, William knew pushing Foster away would not be an option – the man had become an immoveable object. He needed a weapon but the Glock had jumped from his fingers when he had been tackled and William didn't dare risk taking a moment to look around for it now though, he was barely able to keep Jacob at bay with his full concentration poured into the task. _'I left my MP5 leaning against the doorframe though. It shouldn't be too hard to reach – if I was ten feet closer anyways.' _

Deciding it was better than nothing William started his sluggish crawl backwards towards the door, grunting and groaning, groping behind him blindly with one hand while using the other to keep Foster's jaws from closing around his throat. Plush carpet and cold flooring passed beneath the captain's probing fingertips, the empty moans of his friend filled his ears. More hardwood brushed his hands and then William could feel the flaking paint of the doorframe, he grimaced as warm drool splashed the side of his face. William searched along the side of the door with his hand, feeling relief flood him as metal passed beneath his touch – the trigger guard of his weapon.

_'I'm sorry Jake. I'm so goddamn sorry.' _William thought, reaching for his submachine gun – and feeling his heart pause when he heard the weapon clatter to the ground, out of reach and out of sight. "Shit!"

Turning his eyes back on Foster, sickened by the stringy rivulets of saliva hanging from the man's chin, William felt his strength waning. His muscles were aflame, rapidly burning to dust in the wake of Jacob's unholy might. That he could no longer hold out the captain knew, just as he knew that Jacob Foster – his buddy and pal – was about to be responsible for his death. With a final defiant cry of anguish and outrage, William felt his hold give out.

Foster moaned, a wet rumbling sound in the pit of his throat and Will winced, preparing to feel the unimaginable pain as another human being tore his throat out. That wet, rumbling sound grew louder, filtering into the captain's ear – and was obliterated as a gunshot resounded in the office. Jacob jerked to the right and fell limp.

Amazed to find himself still breathing, William cracked one eye open. Foster lay half-slumped across his body, a small hole in the back of his head dribbling blood down through his curly black locks. Scrambling to his feet the captain took in a deep, shuddering breath, stumbling back until the solid weight of the door halted his steps. Tearing his eyes away from Jacob's corpse, William came face to face with his savior. Tessa Foster stood over the body of her husband looking as if she had just seen a ghost – William's pistol smoking in her trembling hands.

"Jesus." Will breathed, staring at the deathly pale woman and feeling the blood drain from his face. '_She just killed her own husband.' _For a second, the captain thought the sheer insanity of the thought might be enough to finally push him over the edge into madness. "Tessa…oh my God, oh God. Tess, I-I'm so sorry. It's my fault…I'm so sorry."

The woman seemed not to hear, merely staring at the body of her dead husband, the handgun finally tumbling from her quivering hands to the floor below. Weeping overtook Tessa, making her whole body quake as the force of her torment took hold and she fell to the ground beside the man she had loved. Lowering her face into her hands Tessa wailed as she cried – a scream of torture and remorse – a noise that threatened to wrench even William Brown's heart from his chest.

"Tessa," the captain said gently, edging towards the woman slowly but recoiled when she turned her eyes on him. The woman's face was a pale, tear-streaked mask of death and anguish.

"_Get away from me_!" She shrieked. "_Leave us alone_!"

William staggered back as if struck, transferring his horrified gaze to Jacob. "Tubbs" Foster lay dead; his white eyes open and fixed on the wall in front of him, saliva dripping out onto the carpet from the corner of his mouth. Choking back a sob of his own, William reached down and closed his friends unseeing eyes before scooping up the Glock that lay beside him.

"I'm sorry, Jake." William mumbled, only dimly aware that he had spoken. "I'm sorry for everything."

Tessa continued to weep and wail, forming a wordless lament for the dead as William retrieved his submachine gun and stepped through the door out into the main hall. What sense was there in trying to console the woman? What meager words could he offer that would sweep away the knowledge that she had shot and killed a man she had sworn to love unto death? Her grief was a maelstrom and his words mere dust. All there was left to do was inform the others that Jacob Foster was no more – another life claimed by the madness of Raccoon City.

_'I'll see you soon Jake.' _William thought, unable to stop the tears flowing down his face. He didn't mind, he couldn't even feel their moisture – his whole body seemed crafted of ice now. _'I understand now. All there's left to do in this place is die. I'm sorry for everything but I'll see you real soon.' _

Looking out over the sea of confused and frightened faces William took in a breath and blew it out. "Jacob Foster," he began slowly, "is dead."

_'All that's left to do is die.' _Will found the thought oddly comforting.

Author's Note: Here's the new update, Readers. I hope you enjoy and look for another one soon. Please read and review when you get the chance, your feedback is much desired and appreciated. Thank you and enjoy.


	20. Ambush

**Chapter 19: Ambush**

October 2, 1998

2:03 AM

Saint Jude's Hospital, Intensive Care Unit

Running a hand through his thick braided beard, Shots stomped out the cigarette he had been smoking. As a former physician he knew the dangers of his habit all too well and thus only lit up a butt when terribly nervous. One or two cigarettes were usually enough to settle his nerves and calm the butterflies in his gut – the one Shots had just ground beneath his boot heel had been his fifth.

Shots stood in the hallway just outside the room where he had left Boomer resting. It was hardly an inspiring sight, the hallway, all sterile white tile floors and walls and ceilings. Patient's rooms lined the walls but each and every one the biker looked in was empty – as if all of Saint Jude's charges had just decided to get up and go home. The staff apparently had similar ideas as well. Shots had wandered around the ICU for a few minutes after stitching up and sedating Boomer in the hopes of finding a doctor or nurse but was only successful in locating deserted corridor after deserted corridor and thus gave up his search. Besides, Blaze was supposed to be handling that anyways.

_'Where the hell is he?' _Shots wondered as he leaned against the wall, feeling around in his jacket pocket for another smoke – one more couldn't hurt tonight. _'He said he was going to go "snoop" around for help but that was hours ago. How long does it take before you realize everyone packed up and got the hell out of Dodge…even if it was a bunch of trauma victims. Shit, this must be Bizzaro World, nothing makes any damn sense anymore.' _

Shaking his head Shots sparked up a match and started on his sixth cigarette of the night. Despite the long drags he took the calming effects of the smoke were lost on the biker. It filled his lungs and burned in his chest but Shots was unable to surrender to the fantasy that it was relaxing – really it only made him feel sick. Back in medical school, when he had first picked up the habit, Shots could sometimes pretend that the nicotine would soothe his worries but now there was no pretending that he was doing anything other than poisoning himself. Shots' worries were still firmly set in the forefront of his mind.

_'Shit, I hope Shank and the other guys are alright.' _Shots thought, sagging to the ground outside the operating room where Boomer lay resting, removing the cigarette from between his lips. _'I can't believe Blaze just took off like that but I guess he didn't really have any other choice. It was either put pedal to the metal or get carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Well, if Shank can survive weeks in the jungle with nothing but a Bowie knife and a canteen I'm sure a jungle made out of concrete won't be a much bigger challenge for him – especially with two of his crew backing him up. Damn, what in the name of hell's bathroom _were _those things?' _

Whatever they were he didn't need to worry about them where he was at least. Saint Jude's was the safest place Shots had seen since riding into Raccoon City. He hadn't seen another soul since entering – let along jumping gorilla demons with claws and bad attitudes – and the doors he had seen, with the exception of the front entrance – were securely locked and barricaded – though exactly _who _had done the barricading remained a mystery. The haunting loneliness of the hospital gave it the feel of a haven, an oasis, amid the turmoil gripping Raccoon in its fist.

_'Granted that's not really how you see it. Right, Doctor Keller?' _Even though the mocking voice in his head was his own it still sent a shiver up Shots' spine. He hadn't used the name Dexter Keller in a long while. Not since the accident that in reality was so many years ago but in Shots' mind it seemed like only yesterday he had cost that ten-year old girl her life and future. To him, the quiet dark face of Saint Jude's was less a safe haven and more a tombstone to his career.

_'It's everything I ran away from, everything I've been trying to forget.' _Shots thought gazing up and down the silent halls to his left and right, overhead the lights flickered and sputtered. Many were already broken, hanging from their fixtures by a wire or two. '_I ran and ran, I put miles and states between myself and all this but now I find out that it wasn't far enough. You can never outrun your past because no matter how far and how fast you run it's always there with you, sitting in the back of your mind just waiting for a chance to leap out and yell "Surprise! I'm still with you buddy!"'_

The thought brought memories with it, memories Shots had tried so hard to drown with booze and drugs and loose women. He made no effort to block them out now though, painful as they were. The memories came of a time far gone, of a promising young doctor named Dexter Keller and a beautiful little blonde girl named Mary Pinsen.

_'Her hair was soft as velvet,' _Shots recalled, feeling the icy cold hand of remembered failure grip his heart. '_Her eyes were like clear blue water.' _

For several months Mary Pinsen and her shy smile had been regular visitors to Keller's office. She was a pretty young girl with a budding interest in astronomy and the soon-to-be star of her school's Christmas play. She was also in possession of a rather serious heart defect.

Upon diagnosing the girl it had not taken the brilliant Doctor Keller long to determine that without surgery, young Mary Pinsen would not live more than another year. Of course, Mary was understandably upset by the prospect of having to go under the knife then spend weeks recuperating in the hospital away from her mother. Hospitals were bad places, she had informed Keller during one of their sessions, they were places where they stuck tubes in you and forced you to eat terrible tasting food.

Keller had done everything in his power to try and quiet the girl's fears. At first the young doctor had taken Mary along on his rounds, letting her visit with all the people who had undergone serious treatment but were still in good spirits despite their current situation. While his patients had been good sports, smiling gently at the starry-eyed child while explaining to her that the staff were most helpful and the food hardly the thing of horror stories, the visits still seemed to do more harm than good.

Keller tried a different approach. Taking the girl by the shoulders and staring her square in the eye he had calmly told Mary that while some children find hospitals intimidating, scary places she was a big girl now and part of being a big girl was being brave enough to face your fears head on. If anything, this prospect had only terrified the youngster even worse.

Now feeling that he was at his rope's end, Dexter Keller had Mary accompany him into his office on their next visit. He pulled a chair into the center of the room and told the girl to be seated. When she had done so the physician instructed Mary to study the walls surrounding her.

There was hardly a square foot of space that had not already been taken up by an award certificate or degree from some prestigious university or school of medicine. _Dexter Keller _was spelled out in gold lettering across his much cherished degree in microbiology from Harvard as well as the honors certificate next to it and dozens of other papers as well, all neatly framed and nailed to the walls. The office served as a monument to education, to all the knowledge awaiting any man with a head set firmly upon his shoulders and the hunger to learn burning in his belly. Mary gazed up at each of the framed treasures with uncanny scrutiny as if seeing the awards – really _seeing _them and what they represented – for the first time.

_"You see all these, Mary?" _ Doctor Keller had asked his patient, kneeling next to her with a wide grin splitting his clean-shaven face. "_They only give these papers out to guys and gals with really big brains. Now, those guys and gals might not get invited to all coolest parties but they _do _know a thing or two about how to make sick little girls feel better."_

Mary had turned her eyes – clear, blue and filled with the gentle purity of childhood – towards the man at her side and frowned. "_Does that mean you don't go to a lot of parties, Doctor Dexter?" _

_"No," _he had laughed and shook his head, "_but it means I don't make mistakes either. Especially not when brave young _women _are involved. So, what do you say Mary? Do you trust me?" _

The young girl, her cherubic face beaming with the exuberant glow of youth, took a final look at the numerous plaques and diplomas framed on the walls before nodding enthusiastically. Shots would never forget how bright the girl's smile was after his reassurances.

_'She never should have trusted me.' _Shots thought, his mind returning to the present long enough for him to light up his seventh cigarette. _'She should have run screaming for her life from my office and never looked back.' _

Shots had never learned precisely what had gone wrong that day. It was an operation he had performed countless times before – an operation he had written his thesis on – and yet somewhere along the way he had made a mistake. Two in fact.

The first mistake he was still wholly unaware of. Perhaps he had forgotten to thoroughly sterilize one of the instruments or maybe he had been careless when sealing the incision but somehow an infection had been able to take root in Mary's small body after the surgery. The second mistake came next and sadly, unlike the first, he was all too aware of its cause.

_'I didn't _mean _to kill her.' _Shots thought, sniffing irritably while scrubbing a hand across his eyes. The smoke must have been bothering his sinuses, it did from time to time. '_I _loved _her! I was tired when I wrote that prescription – tired and worried that I had already fucked up and all that thinking about it made me fuck up even worse! I _knew _she was allergic to those antibiotics – I read her file a hundred times – but I just wasn't _thinking! _I was so damn tired and I just didn't take the time to think about – Jesus, oh _Jesus, _I _murdered _a little girl!'_

It took Shots a moment to realize that he was holding his face in his hands, weeping bitterly into his palms as the demons of the past cut him apart like razor blades. Tears poured from his eyes but the biker no longer cared – there was no one about to see him blubber like a child anyways. A child. He had killed a child once – not intentionally but murder was murder.

Fitting, Shots thought as the sobs continued to assail him like an opponent's fists, he was stuck in town of fire and monsters; of death and darkness. Yes, his past crimes had finally caught up with him after all these years – his punishment arrived and he had been transported into the heart of Hell. Fitting, though he wondered what had delayed justice for so long. Mary Pinsen deserved justice.

There came, then, a noise from around the corner and down the hall – cautious, plodding footsteps padding slowly towards where Shots sat slouched. Standing and pressing his back to the wall, Shots listened intently, making sure that the footsteps were real and not some figment of his own shattered mind – they certainly sounded real in any event.

Shots thought about calling out Blaze's name – the man had certainly been gone long enough – but then quickly clamped his jaws shut. It was entirely possible that the footsteps belonged to his fearless leader but on the other hand they could just as likely belong to another of the trigger-happy rioters – or those mad, springing beasts that had killed Howard Peterson. Deciding to err on the side of caution, Shots hefted his shotgun from where it sat leaning against the door, swung around the corner – and found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

An automatic rifle to be exact and the man holding it looked more than ready to squeeze the trigger. He was only about a foot shorter than the biker, his clean-shaven face was covered in a sheen of sweat and grime somehow making him look even older. The rifleman's eyes – a murky shade of blue – twitched with a wild, restrained panic as if wakened from a nightmare only to discover it was real. Shots certainly knew how _that _felt. A minute later – daring to take his eyes away from the weapon's business end – the biker noted the other fellow's camouflage uniform and bulging rucksack.

"Now, I _know _I'm seeing things." Shots sighed. "The Marines showing up to save the day would be way too much good luck for this nuthouse to allow."

"Drop your weapon!" The soldier demanded and the biker recoiled a step. "Do it now!"

'_Maybe I'm not seeing things after all.' _ Shots thought wryly, letting his shotgun clatter to the ground as he raised his hands slowly. The way the soldier's eyes darted from left to right as if trying to look in every direction at once was enough to convince the former doctor not to toy with the man's patience. He was clearly a hairsbreadth from pulling the trigger.

"See?" Shots said as soothingly as possible, turning his empty hands over in the air for inspection. "Everything's cool, dude. Now, why don't you put that thing away before one of us – namely me – has a tragic accident?"

The soldier simply stared at Shots, the rifle shaking in his grip ever so slightly. The Psycho could see the battle going on in the other man's head revealed through his watery, unsteady blue eyes – one side telling him to trust the other side telling him to shoot first and worry about the consequences later. Those eyes revealed a great deal. Shots wondered what the newcomer had seen this night – clearly more than the rational part of his mind could take.

"Alright," the soldier said, blowing out a shaky breath, "I'm going to lower my weapon now but _don't _try anything cute or I'll turn you into a brick of Swiss cheese faster than you can click your heels together. Got it?"

"Got it."

With a visible deal of effort – or was it self-control? – the soldier dropped the barrel of his rifle towards the floor, keeping his eyes locked with the biker's through the whole motion. Sucking in and letting out another nervous breath, the soldier collapsed against the sidewall and mopped his damp face with the sleeve of his uniform. It was then that Shots noticed the bloodstains covering the man's clothing.

"You got a name?" The biker said gently, taking a tentative step towards the soldier and peeking over his shoulder. He was both relieved and disappointed to see there were no more where he had come from. Relieved that there were no more half-crazed G.I.s pointing guns at him and disappointed that there would be no more help for Blaze, Boomer and himself. Where was Blaze anyways?

"Arthur…Arthur Haag. I'm a captain with the Army Rangers." The soldier replied after a moment, wiping his forehead once more before nodding to the biker. "You?"

"You can call me Shots." He said and shrugged when Haag fixed him with a quizzical gaze. "Don't ask, it would take me a long time to explain the whole thing and I really don't feel like it. Army Rangers huh? Well, I don't mean to seem rude or anything but…where the hell are the rest of you guys?"

"Dead." Haag answered all too matter-of-factly and all too quickly. "They're all dead." A hazy, glazed over look passed across the captain's eyes but he hastily shook his head and the look faded.

"I should have known it was too good to be true." Shots sighed, leaning against the wall as well. "What are you guys doing here now anyways? Things have been fucked up here for weeks, what took you so long?"

"You'd have to talk to command about that one." Haag said, dropping his hefty pack to the ground before checking the magazine in his rifle. "My unit was sent in with three others to act as reinforcements for the blockades already set up in the city by the local police."

"I'm guessing things didn't go according to plan." Shots said plainly and Haag laughed – a grim chuckle without so much as a hint of humor.

"You could say that." The Ranger said, slapping the clip back into his rifle. "Something went wrong with our chopper on the way in. The engine overheated and we had to make a crash landing. I lost three men in the crash and four more after we landed. These…these _things _attacked us…tore my guys to shreds."

"Let me guess," Shots interjected, "these things looked kind of like scaly gorillas only they've got seven inch claws and can probably give Superman a run of his money when it comes to leaping tall buildings in a single bound?"

To his surprise, Haag simply shook his head dismissively – almost casually – as if the biker had asked whether or not he found the room too warm. "No," said Haag, scrubbing a hand across his sweaty face, "I didn't run into those little bastards until later. The things that attacked my team were…this is going to sound crazy but they _were…_zombies."

_'_Zombies? _Shit.' _There was nothing Shots could do to stop his surprise from showing. The former surgeon felt his eyebrows raise and his jaw drop. Surely the man was joking…but no, that haunted look in Haag's eyes and the quiver in his voice were pure enough. If clawed, leaping lizard-men were possible then why not the living dead? Every childish nightmare had been given existence in Raccoon City tonight.

"You've seen them haven't you?" Haag asked, apparently noting the other man's astonishment. "You must have if you're carrying that." The Ranger nodded to the twelve-gauge laying on the ground.

Shots only sighed and shook his head wearily. "That's another long story I'd rather not go into at the moment. Let's just say I've seen more than my fair share of what this freak show has to offer."

Haag studied the biker for another moment, his own brows drawing together tightly before shrugging his shoulders. Maybe he had already come to learn that in Raccoon it was easier to accept things at face value and puzzle over the absurdities later.

"Alright," the captain said at last, "if you say so. In any case, I'm glad to see there's another living, breathing person – I was beginning to think I was the only one left. There anyone else with you?"

"Yeah," Shots nodded over his shoulder, "two others. One's laying up in the room behind me…this town's welcoming committee was a little rough on him – and the other's scouting around this place looking for help." '_Be nice if he'd get his ass in gear and hurry back though.' _"What about you? I mean, you said there were three other teams right? You can radio your boys for back-up or something."

Again, Haag shrugged and shook his head. "I don't know if any of them are still alive and even if I did I couldn't contact them now. My radio was damaged in the crash and I had to leave it behind after one of those…scaly gorillas you talked about cut down my radioman." Once more the captain's eyes glazed over with that haunted look of remembered horror. Haag blinked fiercely before going on. "The last transmission I received was from a Lieutenant Wilcott. I told him to meet my company at Precient 24, it's an emergency shelter set up for civilians, but we got cut off trying to get there on foot. Some of those…lizard-things got the jump on us, they killed Ronnie and Daniels but I managed to get away. I got turned around and, well, this was the closest building so I ran for it. Had to break a window to get inside though."

"Wait. Did you just say Precient 24?" Shots asked, feeling his excitement pick up. "On our way here my friends and I…uh…bumped into a cop, he said he was headed that way too. There were six of us then but we got split up – three of us came here and the other three…well, I'm not sure what happened to them but maybe they followed that boy in blue back to his HQ to regroup and rearm." His hope rekindled, the biker scooped up his shotgun and started down the hall. "Come on, we've got to find Blaze and get to the station."

Haag extended his free hand as Shots tried to push past and caught hold of the man's shoulder. The captain's hand was like a vise, his eyes gleaming brightly – seeming to glow with what Shots could only think of as insanity. Those trembling blue eyes showed quite plainly that the foundations of Arthur Haag's mind were crumbling into ruin.

"No way." The Ranger said the words as if issuing the biker a command. "No _way _are we going back out _there! _The streets are _alive _with those…those _monsters, _don't you understand? I saw what they did to Ronnie and Daniels, I _saw _what they did to my whole fucking team! No, our best bet is to sit tight here until the rescue squad shows. Bosa will send one in when he stops getting situation reports. He has to."

"I'm not leaving my friends behind." Shots said matter-of-factly, glaring the Ranger hard in the eye before wrenching himself free of the man's hold. "Now…are you coming with me or would you prefer to stay in this fine establishment?"

Haag sneered at Shots then threw back his head and laughed – a horrible, warbling, nervous sound – before shaking his head as if it were Shots who had just gone off his nut. "You're fucking crazy!" Haag snorted before chuckling in that hysterical way of his once more. "Well suit yourself. I'm staying put, I think – "

Whatever Captain Haag thought would go unknown as two crimson holes erupted in his throat, turning his words into a choked gurgle. The Ranger pitched forward, eyes wide and astounded, his dead weight knocking a startled Shots to the ground and leaving him pinned. So startled was he that not until his back hit the tiles with all the grace of a falling stone did the biker register the gunshots.

"Damn it!" Shots cursed, trying to struggle out from beneath the spasming Haag but to no avail. He managed to raise himself up just enough to see down the other end of the hall where the elevator stood – along with two very alien-looking figures.

Two men – at least they were tall enough for men, the gas masks and bulky black combat gear they wore made it impossible to distinguish gender accurately – approached with pistols drawn. Glowing red eyes peered at the squirming biker as the pair moved forward, their soft-soled boots allowing them to walk across the tiles so quietly they may as well have been made of velvet. Holstering their handguns the duo unslung the assault rifles hanging about their necks.

Whoever they were was no longer important. They had killed Haag – murdered was a better word – and they certainly did not seem intent on taking Shots out for coffee. Without a moment's hesitation the biker raised his shotgun and emptied both barrels at his aggressors.

Though the angle was off as a result of the corpse atop him and despite the face that he was one-arming the weapon, the two commandos promptly threw themselves behind the wall at the end of the hallway when Shots turned the big gauge their way. A hail of buckshot turned the concrete to dust and elicited a curse from one of the men. There was an accent to his tone – was it Mexican or Spanish? One or the other anyways.

Summoning up every ounce of strength his husky frame possessed , Shots used the time he had bought to free himself from the burden of Arthur Haag's body and roll to safety behind a corner as well. What seemed to be a fraction of a second later the chatter of automatic weapons filled the corridor and Shots could _feel _as much as hear the wall he crouched behind being churned to rubble by a torrent of hot lead. Cracking his shotgun open the biker fished out the two spent rounds and popped another pair in from his jacket pocket.

_'Who are these fudge fingers?' _Shots wondered, snapping the barrels closed once more. His heart was racing, the blood thundering in his ears like an electrical storm, every breath was a ragged gulping of air.

"I'm not one of those things!" Shots shouted, thinking that perhaps his attackers had assumed he was one of Haag's zombies but the stream of bullets continued to rain dust and stone chips down on the biker despite his cries.

Shots waited for a pause in their suppressive fire before whirling around the corner and dumping both barrels in their direction once more. Again he missed and again the duo of black-clad gunmen ducked behind their cover once more. Then, something caught the former doctor's eye.

It was Haag – somehow the man was still alive – grabbing feebly at Shot's pant leg with one hand. Shots would have called the Ranger's survival miraculous but his throat was drenched with blood and the man's eyes had already taken on a glassy sheen. The captain couldn't have had more than a minute or two left in the world of the living. Too shocked and horrified to say anything, the biker simply grabbed hold of Haag's outstretched hand and pulled him around the corner as the red-eyed murderers poked their heads out and opened fire.

"Son of a bitch!" Shots bellowed, stumbling to the ground, his ears ringing with the sounds of battle. Pulling the smoking shells from his weapon he reached into his pocket for more ammo – and came up empty. The biker groped up and down the front of his jacket, checked his jeans, but still came away empty again. He was dry. "Son of a _bitch!" _

Haag uttered a choked, grunting sound, weakly pushing his assault rifle in Shots' direction before his blue eyes rolled back into his skull and his chest ceased to rise. Not having any better ideas, Shots accepted the gift and fired a suppressive burst of his own around the corner – one that nearly bowled him over in the process. He was rewarded with another oath from the Latino.

With the speed and deftness of a surgeon's fingers, Shots set to work stripping the dead Ranger as quickly as he could. He all but tore Haag's flak jacket off, throwing it over his back. The man's utility belt he slung over one shoulder and the bulging rucksack over the other. Then, almost as an after thought, Shots clapped the captain's Kevlar helmet over his head.

"Fire in the hole!" Another voice called from down the hall, this one heavy with a different accent – Russian or something Eastern European anyways.

"Fire in the…" Shots muttered to himself, perplexed until the metallic _clink _announced the arrival of a dark spherical object and realization dawned on the biker with all the force of a blow to the stomach. "Shit on a stick!"

Shots was moving even before he finished speaking, pumping arms and legs, tearing down the dim hallway as if he meant to take flight. He hoped he just might. Up ahead the corridor branched off to the left, if he could make it that far then the wall should shield him from the blast but the burden Haag had been carrying was substantial to say the least and the grenade would detonate in less than a second. Still, it was only another foot or two. There was a chance.

The roar of the explosive sounded in Shot's ears, he could feel the heat of its deadly embrace chasing him down the hall and then he was airborne – sailing through the air and ducking safely behind the wall as shrapnel and fire shook the building. Though he took off like a bird, the husky biker landed much like a rock – crashing back to the ground heavily on one shoulder. Crying out, more in annoyance than actual pain, Shots rolled onto his back.

Dust and plaster drifted lazily to the ground in the wake of the blast. The frag had managed to knock out most of the lights in the corridor as well but a few small fires smoldering along the floor gave off some meager illumination. His ears still ringing from the explosion, it took Shots a moment to recognize the sounds of boot steps crunching on glass and a pair of muffled voices.

"Did you get him?" The Latino asked.

"_Niet." _The Russian stated flatly as Shots rose to his feet, shaking away the cobwebs in his skull. "No body, you see?"

"Yeah," the Latino replied in a considering voice, "well, he can't have gone far. Smith said he was taking the stairs, the other guys should be here soon."

_'Other guys?' _Shots thought in a near panic, hastily ducking around another corner to hide in the alcove outside a chemical storage area. He tried the knob but found it locked – no surprise there. _'Shit. No way out and two goons with some serious hardware are coming to put a toe tag on me – and more of 'em are coming too. Boomer's laid up in the room down the hall and Courageous Captain Haag is pushing up daises. Now would be a great time to show up and save my candy ass, Blaze!' _

Well, if Shots had learned only one thing during his stay in Raccoon so far it was that wishful thinking got one nowhere – he was going to have to handle matters himself. Crouching in the shadows of the alcove the biker pressed the stock of Haag's rifle against his shoulder. The cautious, deliberate footsteps drew closer, he would just have to hope the masked killers – whoever they were – were grouped closely together. A black boot turned the corner, a pair of red eyes flared in the darkness and Shots squeezed the trigger.

_Click, click. _He was empty. Those glowing, burning red eyes turned to where the former surgeon sat in a crouch.

"Son of a whore." Shots mumbled, leaping towards the black-clad figure like an eagle descending for its killing stroke. Switching his hold on the assault rifle, Shots stuck with surprising speed. His first blow knocked his attacker's weapon across the floor, his second sent the man reeling into the opposite wall clutching what must have been a badly bruised throat. The body slumped to the ground in a boneless heap.

The hollow sound of metal against metal made the biker whirl around. Another pair of red insect-like eyes stared into his own the barrel of a rifle pressed cold steel into his belly. Shots snapped his eyes closed a second before the shot rang out.

It struck the former doctor as rather strange that a piece of molten lead punching through his gut could be so utterly painless. Perhaps he was just in shock and the pain would hit him in a moment…no, it had been far too long for that. More than a little afraid to do so, Shots cracked one eye open.

The second commando lay in a pile halfway across the corridor, the material of his vest torn to shreds, tendrils of smoke rising from the fabric to the ceiling. Turning his head to the right, Shots felt his surprise double as he caught sight of Boomer clutching the wall with one hand as if he meant to climb it. In the other he gripped his PA3 shotgun in one pale, shaking hand.

"Boomer?" Shots said, rushing to his friend's side, a mixture of relief and bewilderment flooding through his body and mind. "Take it easy, man. You look like shit."

That was putting it lightly. Boomer stood stripped to the waist, his Psychos Inc jacket replaced by a thick covering of bloodstained bandages that encircled his considerable waist. White as a ghost, sweat trickle through the hair on his face and down through that on his chest. Boomer coughed weakly as Shots supported him around the shoulders. Looking up at his friend with hazy, dilated pupils Boomer grinned.

"At least…I look better…than I feel."

"What are you doing out here?" Shots asked stupidly, going through the motions of checking the other man's pulse and eyes. In his current condition, Shots thought a sneeze would knock the man dead.

"Saving…your ass it seems." Boomer replied in a whispering tone, another muffled cough burst a blood bubble on his lip. "No need to…thank me…you're welcome. All the gunshots woke me from my catnap…and then…there was a fucking earthquake. Naturally…I figured you…were having one hell of a party out here. Seems…I was right." He nodded to the two unconscious commandos.

"I gave you enough sedative to put a horse to sleep." Shots mumbled, more to himself than his companion. The need to be elsewhere was in the forefront of the ex-physicians mind as he slung Boomer's arm around his neck and help him hobble up the hallway he had come from. "I don't know, maybe I read the dosage on the bottle wrong."

"There's an encouraging…thought." Boomer muttered sagging heavily against his friend. "Who were…the members of Team Blow-Shit-Up back there? And…where's Blaze?" Another wheezing cough rattled in the biker's lungs.

"The answer to both those questions is 'I have no idea'." Shots replied curtly. "Now hang on. We've got to get out of here before more of those dudes show up. If we're lucky we'll bump into the fearless leader on the way." '_Lucky, yeah right.' _

Sadly, Shots was about to discover how true that thought was. Half-dragging Boomer back into the hall where Haag's body lay, Shots felt his heart to turn to ice as two more of the black-clad, red-eyed killers materialized around the corner, each armed with a sleek pistol. Neither of the commandos hesitated even a second before pulling the trigger.

The rain of lead sent each man sprawling to the ground, Shots felt warm liquid splash the side of his face before the tile flooring clapped him on the back of the head. The hall danced in crazy spirals before the biker's eyes, bright colors burst behind his closed lids as he struggled to blink away the fog in his brain. His chest felt as if someone had tried to run a battering ram through it but the pain was dull and distant, the cobwebs in his head making the welts and bruises blessedly diluted. Haag's vest had stopped the rounds from penetrating and Shots thought he would be all right if only he could get his legs working again but Boomer…Boomer had been in only his skin when the shooting started.

Despite the mist clouding his thoughts, Shots was able to turn his head to the right and felt his breath catch when he saw the man lying next to him. Boomer had landed on his back, his glassy eyes fixed on the ceiling though in reality they saw nothing. The four holes in his chest ensured that he would never see anything again.

_'Sons of bitches.' _The voice in Shots' head was oddly slurred, the thought itself murky and hard to hold onto. Shaking his head, the words came in a little clearer. _'Murdering sons of bitches!' _

From his position on the floor Shots could just make out the figures of the commandos approaching from the corner of his eye. Something had changed in their posture, their footsteps were still slow and wary but their arms were lowered. Their weapons were lowered.

_"Mother fuckers!" _Shots bellowed the war cry as he lurched to a sitting position, reaching under his left arm at the same time to where Haag's pistol lay holstered in its utility belt. Drawing the weapon the biker opened fire, spacing the shots out between Boomer's killers. The commando on the left ducked low and threw himself away, rolling across the floor, but the fellow on the right clutched one leg and hit the ground screaming his agony.

In the next instant Shots was on his feet, swapping clips as he raced back the way he had come. He tried not to think about anything except running, except staying alive. Right now there was no room in the biker's thoughts for Boomer or Arthur Haag. Or little Mary Pinsen for that matter. He had to focus on getting away and nothing else.

Rounding the corner into the previous hallway Shots saw that the trooper he had knocked out was slowly climbing back to his feet, one gloved hand pressed to the side of his head, the other gripping the wall for support. His instincts taking over, Shots lashed out with one foot, driving the treads of his boot into the side of the commando's head and crushing it up against the wall. The black-clad figure sagged to the ground once more.

"Asshole." The biker seethed between clenched teeth as he darted up the hall once more.

A thunderous pop rung out behind Shots and he found himself stumbling to maintain his balance. Icy pain encircled and consumed his right leg like wildfire. A scream shook his eardrums as he whirled about, bumping into the wall to stay upright – his scream.

Turning his head in the direction of the noise, Shots could see the trooper Boomer had shot regaining his feet unsteadily, raising his pistol with one hand. His vest must have kept the pellets from penetrating.

Shots brought his own weapon up at the same time and returned fire but the man proved surprisingly swift, rolling behind the corner to his right. The pain in the biker's shin where the bullet had exited was sharp and acute, making the former doctor feel a great deal like he had blundered into a bear trap, but the shouting voices and heavy footfalls from behind lent the man strength born of adrenaline. Gritting his teeth against the hot agony in his leg, Shots tore up the hallway as fast as his injury would allow.

The intensive care wing of Saint Jude's was much like a maze: twisting corridors leading to more twisting corridors; empty passageways to empty passageways. Like the rat in the maze, Shots raced up and down cold, deserted stretches of hallway, rounded corners and darted from junction to junction and everywhere the sounds of his pursuers followed. He knew that to slow down would mean death but blood loss was making him dizzy and the fire eating up his leg burned hotter with every step. Shots was just beginning to think that maybe death wasn't such a bad alternative when compared with the possibility of stumbling about in an empty hospital waiting to bleed out, when he saw it at long last.

The word _'EXIT' _flashed in bold red letters above a single, glass-front door leading into a gray painted stairwell. Feeling a small spark of hope take root in his chest, Shots limped towards the stairway. The spark of hope turned to surprise though, as the door swung inwards before Shots' hand was anywhere near the knob.

Framed in the archway was yet another of the red-eyed murderers, this one much taller and wider than the four behind the biker and carrying an incredibly large machine gun. _'Take him down.' _The thought took hold in Shots' mind and then he was flying, sailing through the air and closing the distance between himself and the startled commando. Crashing into the figure, Shots wrapped his arms around the man's shoulders and then his momentum was carrying them both backwards, sending them tumbling end over end down the stairs.

There was a sickening _thud _as the commando's head connected with the bottom of the first landing, his unconscious body conveniently breaking the biker's fall. Shaking his head as he rose to a pair of wobbly legs, Shots could hear voices drawing closer from above.

"This way," one said in a voice too cool and robotic to have been spoken by a human, "I sent Sven to cut him off."

"Good plan," Shots mumbled into his beard, turning Sven over and unclipping a grenade from his belt, "but backfires are a real bitch."

Pulling the pin free, Shots waited only a moment for the pounding footsteps to draw nearer before lobbing the explosive through the open door. He ran, the explosion seconds later little more than white noise to his ears as the steps passed beneath his feet.

Shots tried to focus on running, on blocking out the pain but somehow other thoughts snuck in below the surface of his mind. Thoughts of ghosts: a frightened soldier, an injured friend and a little girl. An innocent little girl. Shots ran on, hoping that he might live long enough to one day exorcise all the demons haunting him.

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay, Readers. Here's the next update and hopefully I'll be able to get another one up fairly shortly. Anyways, I hope you enjoy. Please read and review, tell me what you like and what you don't. I can take it.


	21. Eddie's Luck

**Chapter 20: Eddie's Luck **

October 2, 1998

12:00 PM

Precient 24

"You look like you're about ready to shit a brick, kid." Shank commented, studying Skip as he pulled on a spare Kevlar vest from one of the supply crates atop the desk he and three others were gathered around. "You sure you're ready for this?"

"Y-yeah," Skip said, giving a start at the sound of his own name. He, too, wore a bullet proof vest and was currently studying the Beretta 9mm Sam Brocket had thrust his way moments ago as if it might bite him. "Well, I mean, I guess I don't have much choice right? It's either go with you guys or get left behind here. It's just that uh, well, I've never even handled a paintball gun before." Skip sucked in a deep breath and blew it out with a heavy sigh. "Figures. I always knew my luck would get me killed one day.

"No one's getting killed," Zeke said, looking up from examining his rifle for what Eddie Gabbor suspected was the fiftieth time, the look in his eyes saying he meant every word, "and no one is getting left behind either." The lieutenant paused then went on in a tone so soft Eddie wasn't sure he was supposed to hear. "Too many people have been left behind tonight."

"If you say so," Eddie shrugged, adjusting the straps on his own vest before hauling a twelve-gauge shotgun out of a separate crate and thumbing shells into it. His Beretta was reloaded and back in its holster as well. "But I still don't like it. If you ask me – and I know nobody is – then I say too much of the doc's master plan depends on luck. Think about it. _With luck _we'll be able to make our suicide run through the garage unscathed. _With luck _we'll be able to have a nice, pleasant drive through a city overrun with monsters without attracting their notice and _with luck _Burke's helicopters will be prepped and ready to go once we reach Saint Jude's."

"If it all depends on luck," a new voice said gruff and hard as stone, "then we should all be just fine so long as we stick next to you, pig."

The words sounded oddly amiable and as the speaker approached – Eddie didn't need to look up to know it was Slugger, he could tell the Psycho's apart by their voice alone now – Shank tossed a shotgun across the table to the man then set to loading one for himself as well. Eddie didn't need to look up to know that Tech would be with the man either, if he wasn't tailing Shank like a shadow then he would be glued to Slugger. The young officer could just picture the skinny man standing at his friend's shoulder, his lips curled in a scowl that seemed as much a part of his face as his thin eyebrows.

For a time the six men worked in a comfortable silence, checking weapons, loading clips, making sure shoelaces were tight enough. That morning had been all about work, all about preparation. Eddie didn't mind the simple tasks of securing weapons and checking ammo, indeed the smooth, mechanical movements of doing so kept his mind from wandering onto what would happen when they reached the garage. Something that was now only moments away from taking place.

Since the first rays of the sun had penetrated the cracks in the boards on the station's windows the SWAT troopers and Rangers had gone about rousing the others from their sleep. Jobs were handed out immediately, whether they were cleaning firearms, studying blueprints or stockpiling ammunition and food into large duffle bags for the trip to the hospital. There hardly been anytime for the survivors to eat as the tasks handed out by Captain Brown went on without end. Idleness had been one thing the man was not about to tolerate and several of his own troops had received the rough side of his tongue when he felt they had started to slacken in their efforts.

William Brown was the cause of Eddie's discomfort at the moment. In such a short amount of time – hours really – the burly captain had undergone a dramatic change. There was a haunted look to William's red-rimmed eyes now and Officer Gabbor had caught the man muttering to himself more than once that morning. It was understandable though, Eddie supposed, that after everything else Captain Brown had been through watching his best friend die at the hand of his wife would be more than enough to push him over the edge.

Currently Will stood in the center of the room, his men gathered in a circle around him as he gestured at a blueprint of the station laid out in front of him. At first the young officer didn't recognize any of the black-clad troopers gathered around the massive figure of William Brown but then those hard, steely brown eyes of Sam Brocket's glanced his way for a moment. The man looked just as haunted as William and twice as guilty too. Eddie sighed and shook his head, still wanting to wake up in his bed and discover this was all the result of having fallen asleep after the Midnight Creature Feature.

_'Don't hold your breath.' _He told himself dryly, tucking a handful of shotgun shells into his pocket.

"That mother fucker is going to get us all killed." The whiny, somewhat high-pitched tone belonged to Tech and his conspiratorial way of speaking drew all eyes his way. "Don't look at me like that, you can see it too!"

Of course, the weasely little fellow was referring to Captain Brown. Ever since Foster's death the man had hardly paused in barking orders and racing about to see them carried out to the letter. Every word William spoke now dripped acid and was edged so sharply Eddie was astounded Will didn't draw blood from speaking alone. There was an eagerness about the captain now too, a barely contained energy, as if he were looking forward to the death trap that the parking garage presented. That, coupled with the way the man was constantly mumbling into his beard did not instill Eddie with a great deal of confidence that their leader could get the job done.

"Cut the guy some slack," Zeke said, checking the clip in his pistol now, "he just watched his best friend get his brains blown out by his wife because he was trying to kill him. That's enough to fuck with anyone's head."

"True," Eddie agreed, examining his own sidearm, "but if he's fallen off his nut I don't think he should be the one calling the shots around here."

"I hear that." Slugger nodded, thumbing a few extra rounds into the empty chambers of his revolver, Skip's baseball bat supported in the crook of his arm. "I don't know about you guys but I'd like to make it out of here with a whole skin and I doubt that following around a head case like Captain Willy over there is the best way to go about it." He finished with a pointed stare to where William was conversing with the other officers. Tech nodded his approval.

"He's not a head case," Zeke said, looking up from his weapon to give the biker an icy look of his own. The stare down lasted for only a heartbeat but Eddie could feel the intensity in the two men's gazes, their eyes sharp and cool. He saw Skip swallow thickly out of the corner of his eye. "He's just shaken up," the Ranger continued, holstering the .45 and Eddie found himself relaxing tense muscles. For a moment he had thought the lieutenant intended to use it. "I've seen it happen before, to soldiers who had to watch their buddies get shot up. They short circuit and go into shock for a little while but when things heat up they snap out of it. William will be there when we need him. Oh, and Officer Gabbor," Eddie felt the man's hand close around his wrist, saw those stony eyes lock with his, "like it or not _I'm _the one calling the shots around here. Don't forget that."

Too dumbfounded – and, he was forced to admit, more than a little intimidated – by Zeke's edged stare, the young officer merely nodded. Slowly, the lieutenant did the same and released his hold on the younger man's forearm. It was then that Eddie discovered how to breathe again.

"Damn crackers are _all _going to get me killed." Eddie muttered under his breath and while he meant the words for his ears alone Shank must have heard as he promptly burst out laughing.

"At least you've got someone to blame!" A huge grin split the big man's bearded face.

The sound of a door opening and closing overhead silenced each man's tongue and drew their eyes. Gregory Burke stepped out of William Brown's office and marched down the steps passed the desk where the other Rangers went about checking weapons or making sure if Rachel needed anything. William did not so much as glance at the man as he hurried by, heading for Lieutenant Wilcott. William never looked up at his office anymore either, it might have not existed for all the mind he paid it. Eddie found it hard to look up that way sometimes too…the weeping coming from above was hard to bear.

Eddie had once thought the hook-nosed doctor looked like a scholar with his angular features and the spectacles covering bird-like eyes but the man looked more a beggar now. Burke's shirt was rumpled, stained and only half-tucked into a pair of wrinkled slacks. Blue eyes that were normally bright and alert seemed dimmer now, puffy and pink with fatigue. The physician's graying hair was a frazzled mess, one he was currently trying to sort out with one hand.

"I have some bad news." Burke said calmly upon reaching Zeke's side, his words crisp and polished.

"That doesn't surprise me." The Ranger sighed, scooping up his rifle and slinging the strap across his chest. "What is it?"

"Tessa Foster is clearly in shock. It seems that having to shoot her husband has caused her to seal herself off from reality." _No shit, _Eddie thought but said nothing. Burke could have been discussing the weather for all the feeling in his voice. "I doubt any of us can reach her now, wherever her mind is it is far way. Normally I'd recommend institutionalization for a patient like Tessa but I obviously can't do that in this situation."

"What are you saying, doc?" Zeke asked, quirking an eyebrow as he studied the other man. "Are you telling me the only way I'm going to be able to get her to come with us is by dragging her myself?"

"In a word, yes." Burke said after a moment with a quick nod.

"I told you I didn't like it." Eddie muttered but Zeke ignored the young officer.

"Christ, it's always something isn't it?" The Ranger said then turned to face Burke. "Alright, I'll go and talk to her and if worst comes to worst I'll get Coop to throw her over one shoulder and carry her out of there. I'm not leaving anyone else behind. Doc, you're with me."

Both men turned to go then skidded to a halt as William's large frame loomed up in front of them. Eddie hadn't seen the man come over but judging by the way he had his arms crossed and the thunderclouds in his eyes the captain had heard enough of Zeke's plan to find it displeasing. Captain Brown was flanked by half a dozen SWAT troopers, including Sam and Kathy, all looking as grim as he did. Kathy glanced between Sam and Will anxiously as if expecting either man to explode at any moment.

"Great," Eddie muttered to him self, "talk about throwing a match into a powder keg." Picking up the Mossburg, Eddie moved to stand by the lieutenant. The bikers followed a moment later and so did a miserable looking Skip a moment after that.

"Going somewhere, Lieutenant Wilcott?" Brown asked passively, his face a thunderhead.

"I'm going to get Tessa." Zeke shot back, voice steady, face expressionless.

The SWAT troopers standing behind their captain fingered the butts of pistols or gripped the handles of their MP5s tighter, leading the Psychos to do much the same. The stand off attracted the interest of the rest of Zeke's team and the Rangers stalked over quickly, with the exception of Rachel who sat looking on with a drawn face. The soldiers' weapons were pointed at the floor but the men looked ready to come up firing given half an excuse and half a second. Kath reached for Sam's arm but he batted her hand away irritably.

_'Please, God,' _Eddie prayed silently, '_there's enough ways for us to get killed in this city tonight without adding getting shot to bits by each other to the bill. Great, I'm surrounded by a bunch of paranoid whities with guns. I should have known I'd have days like this.' _

"She's staying." William replied plainly. "She doesn't want to leave Jacob and that's' her choice. We'll send help back for her once we get out of the city." Brown's face darkened. "And no one is going to try and haul Tess out of there against her own will. _No one." _

Zeke's eyes widened and he fixed the other man with a wondering look, perhaps thinking that Will was joking. "Are you nuts?" He said and Eddie winced. Accusing the captain of losing his sanity was probably not the wisest move given his current condition. Skip gulped loudly next to him. "The station might be safe now but God only knows what's going to happen once we pull up all the defenses. You saw those things that attacked us. Do you really think a locked door will keep them out? It's not safe for anyone to be alone in this city tonight, especially someone in Tessa's state of mind. Now, I'm sorry about your friend captain but I'm not letting her stay here so stand aside."

William didn't flinch though his eyes flickered, daring the man to try and move him. Sam scowled openly at Lieutenant Wilcott, growling deep in his throat. The troopers continued to caress their weapons and Kathy looked around as if wishing she could just choose a direction and bolt. Next to Eddie, Shank snorted and Skip began mumbling under his breath with his eyes squeezed tight, reciting a Hail Mary. The air suddenly seemed much closer together to Officer Gabbor.

'_If this is good luck I can't _wait _to see some bad. Good luck my _ass! _If I really am lucky this would be a great time for it!' _Eddie tightened trembling, sweaty hands around the shotgun. If push came to shove he wasn't certain he could pull the trigger on anyone in the room – even if they drew down on him first. Eddie started to hum _Luck Be A Lady Tonight. _

"Screw it, I'll get her myself." Zeke said, face red and obviously frustrated, as he started to push past Captain Brown.

With a howl that made Eddie jump and brought a startled gasp from the unflappable Burke, Sam Brocket leapt forward and caught the Ranger around the throat. There was a raucous crash as the SWAT trooper drove Zeke back onto a desk, knocking empty supply crates and a mountain of paperwork to the floor. Looking on, too stunned by Sam's sudden display of primal rage to move, the rookie watched as Sergeant Brocket wedged the barrel of his pistol beneath the struggling lieutenant's chin.

"Zeke!" Rachel screamed from across the room, desperately trying to get to her feet and wailing with frustration when she could not.

"Shut up!" Sam bellowed at the pilot though his wide, feverish eyes were fixed squarely on the Ranger who clutched at the hand gripping his throat. "If Tessa wants to stay then she _stays, _you son of a bitch! You didn't come here to help civilians so don't try and get all righteous now! Her husband is dead because of you! The government made this shit didn't they? They've known about it all along haven't they? _Haven't they! _You were sent in to clean up their mess right? Right? _Admit it! Tell the truth you bastard!" _

Sam was raving, his eyes an inferno of madness, his whole body quaking as he went about his insane interrogation. Spittle flew from cracked lips as he spoke, seemingly deaf to Kathryn's weeping pleas to let Zeke go. The lieutenant choked and spluttered, spasming on the desk, rapidly turning red as his attacker denied him oxygen.

"Get off him you bloody bastard!" Wesley cried, pushing forward with the other Rangers at his back. With a snarl Captain Brown seized the man by his shoulders and threw him back roughly. The troopers behind him leveled their weapons.

"So much for counting on luck." Eddie said.

"You could say that again." Skip mumbled…then everything exploded.

Kathy gasped, turning all heads her way. One of the Rangers – a man with a hard face and frigid brown eyes – wrapped one hand around the girl's throat, the other drawing the pistol at his hip and pressing it to her temple. Before Eddie could even wrap his mind around the situation the SWAT troopers and Captain Brown swirled about, drawing down on the soldier, leading the Rangers to draw down on the officers which, in turn, lead the Psychos to pull their pieces as well. In the space of two seconds everyone was pointing a gun at someone else: police officer at Ranger, Ranger at police officer, Psycho at both.

"Hail Mary, full of grace…" Skip's words grew in volume, his eyes wedged shut but Eddie stopped paying attention when the young man's prayer turned into a senseless babble.

"Pierce," Zeke choked, still prying at Sam's hand though his eyes were on the Ranger who held Kathryn Ward hostage. "What…the hell…are you…doing?"

"Let the lieutenant go or she dies." Pierce said, those unwavering eyes holding Sam's fast. "I'll kill her." As if to emphasize his words the stony-faced Ranger pulled back the hammer on his pistol. Tears leaked from beneath the closed lids of Kathy's eyes.

"If you hurt her I'll spray this sorry fucker's brains all over the floor!" Sam snarled but Eddie could see the man's grip had slackened on Zeke's throat, giving the man some of his color back.

"Yeah?" Sergeant Pierce shot back and for once Eddie could see emotion in the man's hard eyes – fear. There was a wild panic there, all the horror and fright the man had been suppressing all night finally coming back to overwhelm him in a single instant. "She'll still be dead, you want to risk that? It's your choice, friend. Now, you either let the lieutenant go or I'll put a bullet in her." Ryan tightened his hold around Kathy's neck, stirring a fearful cry from the young woman. "I've shot moving targets from over a mile away, son, so you had better believe I won't miss at this range."

An air of tension, so thick and complete that Eddie found it difficult to breathe, settled on the room. Neither man made any move to relinquish what leverage he had, neither man dared to so much as _blink. Nobody _dared to blink. More than a dozen sets of eyes shifted and locked with each other, each gaze a whirling tapestry of suspicion and fear. The only sound apart from harsh, labored breathing was that of Skip Francis calling on the name of every saint in the Bible.

'_Nuts to this,' _Eddie thought as he lowered his shotgun. They were trapped in a city overrun with the rejects from a monster movie and they were fighting with _each other? _'_Raccoon City might have gone bonkers but that doesn't mean we all have to do likewise. If they all want to kill each other that's cool with me but let them do it _after _we get out of this deathtrap. God, I'm so sick of all this crap! Can't these numbskulls see we're all going to wind up tagged and bagged unless we co-operate?'_

"Put the goddamn guns down!" Officer Gabbor bellowed, earning more than one odd look as he lowered his weapon and stomped out into the circle of raised firearms. The rookie's face was twisted with rage and a frustration that carried to the soles of his feet. They were looking at _him _like _he _was crazy? Eddie felt like screaming. "I'm tired of all this bullshit! Somebody is always eyeballing someone else sideways or whispering to each other or passing looks – stop it! Do none of you inbred mother fuckers realize that there is a city full of flesh eating monsters out there just waiting to get in here and have us for lunch?"

Eddie gestured towards the front entrance with the barrel of his twelve gauge. Skip cracked one eye open and quieted his rambling to a soft murmur A few bodies shifted uncomfortably but no one made a move to put his weapon down. '_Please God, don't let me get hit by a stray.' _Eddie though as he continued his tirade. _Luck Be A Lady Tonight _played through his head again.

"Look at you all!" He shouted, throwing a disgusted stare around the room. "You're probably the only people left alive in this city and you're all pointing _guns _at each other! Now, I'm going to grab one of those bags of ammo and one of those bags of food and head down to a garage overflowing with zombies and probably die but at least if I do it'll be with people more civilized than yourselves. Is anyone coming with me?"

Huffing and puffing, Eddie looked around at the faces of the other survivors with a quiet anxiety. He most certainly did not want to have to go down to the parking garage alone. _'I would though, Lord help me, I would. Let them stay here and use each other for target practice – I've got other plans, thank you very much.' _

Slowly, painfully slowly at that, arms began to lower and men began to breathe again. With a final look at Kathy, Sam released his death grip on the lieutenant's throat and Zeke collapsed to the ground coughing and sputtering. Rachel limped towards him but he shied her away with a quick gesture. Coop was at his side quickly, hauling the man back to his feet.

"Let the woman go, Pierce." Lieutenant Wilcott wheezed, rubbing his neck but Ryan was slow to react, looking one way and the other sweat beading down his face as his knuckles went white on the pistol grip. At first, Zeke looked astonished then his face turned to stone and he all but barked his next command. "I said let her go sergeant…that's an order!"

Still looking uncertain, Ryan blew out a deep breath and removed his arm from around Kathy's neck. Once freed the girl darted across the room to where Sergeant Brocket stood, burying her face in his chest as her shoulders shook. The SWAT officer reached up and used one hand to smooth her hair, glaring daggers at Pierce over her shoulder. Ryan dropped his gaze to the floor and only then did Eddie allow himself to breathe a relieved sigh.

_'Luck be a lady tonight,' _the song started up in his head again.

"Let's go." Captain Brown grumbled with a final glare of contempt for the Rangers before turning on his heel towards the elevator. Several of his troops hefted up the bulging duffle bags before following.

"Get your gear squared away and let's move." Zeke ordered, regaining his feet if not his composure, dusting himself off. "Wesley you support Rachel, Skip stick with Coop and Scott – you too doc. Sergeant Pierce, you're with me, I'd like to have a word with you."

Ryan nodded somberly – Eddie would have said he looked ashamed but that seemed impossible for the cold-eyed sniper – moving to the front of the line to stand beside the lieutenant. Skip looked just as grim, just as pale, as he went to stand between the heavy weapons specialist and radioman. Slinging the final duffle bag around his neck, Eddie followed after with Shank and the bikers on his heels.

"Well, that took ten years off my life." The big man mumbled behind him, tugging at his beard, and Eddie was forced to agree.

"If it makes you feel any better," Tech said, "we'll all probably be fucking dead in ten minutes anyways."

"Thanks," Shank sighed, "that really doesn't help."

_'Let Operation Suicide begin,' _Eddie thought ruefully, climbing into the elevator with the others, wondering why William was smiling so eagerly. At the tail end of his dark brooding a familiar chorus began to sound in his head and hum across his lips. _'Luck be a lady tonight. Luck, if you ever were a lady to begin with…' _

Why did that song only ever come to mind before something bad was about to happen? Again, Eddie Gabbor felt like screaming.

Author's Note: Sorry for the long wait but here's another update, Readers. Stay tuned, more coming…hopefully sooner. A big action sequence will be in the next chapter so please keeping reading. Drop a review when you get the chance to tell me what you like/don't like. Thank you and enjoy.


	22. To See The Sun Again

**Chapter 21: To See The Sun Again**

October 2, 1998

12:41 PM

Precinct 24, Parking Garage

"Look, Pierce, if you can't handle this then now would be the time to let me know." Zeke said in the strongest no-nonsense tone he could muster, staring the expressionless sniper in his cold, dark eyes. Those eyes were much like the corridor in which they were now standing, cool and dark and foreboding.

The hall leading to the precinct's parking garage was a dark, narrow stretch of gray concrete with white arrows painted on he walls and floor pointing in the direction of the lot. A frigid, biting draft swept through the corridor and Zeke could hear Skip's teeth chattering from down the way but the Ranger hardly noticed the chill himself. His whole attention was focused on Ryan's icy gaze. He _did _feel the chill from that.

"I'm good to go, sir." Sergeant Pierce replied with a definitive nod. "I won't let you down again. Lieutenant." Why had he paused before adding the last? Had it sounded a little mocking, a little disdainful? Well, the man could be as disdainful as he wanted and say Zeke's name as if it tasted sour to him as long as he did his job and didn't get anyone killed. Or take anymore hostages, of course.

The police officers – with the exceptions of Eddie and Kathryn – had taken off upon reaching the basement. William had all but demanded a quick sweep of the level be made in case any members of the team he had sent down to restore power were still alive. Zeke had failed to see the point in it but after William's actions upstairs and his overall personality change the lieutenant was desperate to avoid another argument with the man and had reluctantly agreed to allow him to conduct the search with the other members of his team – save Ryan of course. That had been another reason he had lent support to Captain Brown's sweep, it gave him and Pierce some time to chat.

"Good," Zeke said plainly, "see that you don't, sergeant." After _his _actions upstairs Zeke wasn't sure how far he could trust his sharpshooter anymore. After what Scott had told him he wasn't sure how far he could trust _anyone _in the unit anymore – maybe not even Wes or Rachel. And he couldn't forget William Brown and his men as well – especially Sam Brocket – all looking half mad and ready for a fight. Why they regarded his team like a pack of rabid dogs that needed nothing more than a few bullets Zeke couldn't say but he was about as ready to trust one of them as he was ready to stick his hand in a garbage disposal with the switch turned on.

_Trust is just another name for death. _The words belonged to the lieutenant's grandfather, Martin Wilcott, whose time working for the CIA had made him more than a slight bit paranoid. While Martin's sayings did hold a kernel of wisdom from time to time Zeke wasn't so sure if he was ready to believe that one just yet. Trust seemed to be the only advantage he had on his side – or had had anyway. Without trust how could any of them expect to make it out of Raccoon with a whole skin?

_I can still trust some of them, _Zeke thought, leaving Ryan and pacing over to the others, his eyes passing over those he named in his head. _Skip, for one, he's just the wrong guy in the wrong place at the wrong time. Burke, too, I doubt he has any hidden agenda – not to mention his plan is the only one we've got to work with right now. What about Eddie Gabbor though? He's one of William's but just a rookie and I doubt he would have given everyone a tongue lashing like that if he was planning on throttling me like the charming Sergeant Brocket. I have to believe I can trust Rachel too, she wouldn't…I just have to believe I can trust her. _Well that last might be true but it was also possible that he was thinking with his pants again.

"How you holding up, kid?" Zeke asked Skip who stood near the wall where Rachel was leaning supported by Burke.

"No sweat." The young man said with a shaky laugh and a nervous smile, then frowned down at the pistol in his hand as if confused which end was which.

Smiling ruefully, Zeke shook his head. You could not help but admire Skip Francis. Here he was, stuck in a city overrun by living nightmares and the walking dead and he was still trying to chuckle and grin as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on – even if it was a poor façade. The kid could not have been more than nineteen or twenty and yet he was managing to hold his fear in check while hard men like William Brown and Ryan Pierce were cracking like dry twigs.

"You should have been a Ranger, Skip." Zeke said, a small grin touching his face. The younger man gave a violent start at that, his eyes nearly popping out of their sockets.

"Are you kidding?" Skip laughed hoarsely. "I'm scared out of my mind. The only reason I haven't pissed my pants is because I don't have another pair on me!"

Rachel giggled weakly much too weakly, "My father told me once that being brave doesn't mean never being scared – everybody's scared of something – but it means still being able to do what's necessary even when you _do _feel like pissing yourself."

"Wise words." Burke mumbled absently, though he sounded a little doubtful himself, saying something just to contribute to the conversation. If there was anyone Zeke could believe feared nothing it was Doctor Gregory Burke. The physician didn't seem to be suppressing his horror the way Pierce was rather he seemed to be letting it slide off him like water. He reminded Zeke a great deal of a mountain in a thunderstorm. The mountain, unshakable, would weather the chaos of the here and now and then go on about the rest of its existence.

"Captain Willy is on his way back with the rest of your boys, LT." Shank said from the end of the hall, peeking his head around the corner as the sounds of approaching boot steps echoed through the hallway. Tech and Slugger stood at the big man's side as always, Skip's baseball bat sheathed in Slugger's belt. Zeke wondered what had possessed the kid to give it up, the biker hardly seemed above extortion but the lieutenant had seen the pair talking and the conversation had almost seemed…friendly. In any case, it hardly mattered now.

William Brown stepped around the corner accompanied by his entourage of SWAT troopers and the remainder of Zeke's squad. Captain Brown looked sour faced and half crazed as always but all the other faces were pale and grim. Whatever fury had been burning in Sam Brocket only minutes ago was extinguished now and he stood staring at his bootlaces as if they had become a great mystery to him. Even Wesley looked particularly downcast, shaking his head and shifting from foot to foot. Scott simply looked as if he might puke at any moment.

"More good news I take it?" Eddie snorted, sagging against one wall.

"Did you find them?" Zeke asked cautiously, directing his question to Wes since William was preoccupied with glaring a hole through the young Officer Gabbor.

"Oh, we bloody found them alright." Wesley scowled and Cooper grumbled at his side, "What was left of them anyway."

"Zombies?" Kathy offered hesitantly, crouching near Eddie.

Sam shook his head. "I doubt it. We didn't find any bodies…not exactly at least." Swallowing deeply, he went on. "We found some blood trails leading into the boiler room along with a few dozen shell casings. When we got there…well… let's just say someone decided to redecorate."

"Yeah," Coop grunted, looking almost as ill as Scott and as sour as William, "with blood and guts. All that was left were some empty weapons and a helmet split down the middle like it was made of cardboard."

"And an arm." Sam added with a grimace. "It had a tattoo of a falcon on it so I think it's safe to say that even if the other guys got away – which I doubt – Danny Thompson probably wasn't among them."

Tech laughed then, a nervous, near hysterical laugh but one that earned him several piercing stares from the SWAT troopers as he threw his hands up. "What did I tell you?" He howled, his question aimed at no one in particular. "We're all fucking screwed!"

Scowling, Slugger slapped the weasel-faced little man across the back of the head, pulling a startled shriek from the fellow. Zeke sighed and silently thanked the man. There was a time to tolerate fools and a time to drag them back into line by their bootstraps. As cold and tired and hungry as he was, Zeke was not so sure he could be trusted to do the latter without causing someone serious harm.

"It doesn't change anything." William said, his face carved from ice, his voice tinged with frost. "We clear the garage and make for the vans then truck on over to Saint Jude's and leave this shit hole to the carrion birds. There's enough death here to make a nice buffet for them. Now get your crap together and let's move."

There came the sound of clips being loaded and weapons being cocked, many of the troopers eyeing their captain warily now. Adjusting the bag hanging around his neck, Eddie rose to his feet and Zeke thought he could hear the man humming under his breath. Wesley caught the lieutenant's frown and simply shrugged his shoulders. There was nothing for it, his gesture said, and while Zeke knew it was true he did not have to like it.

_Here goes everything, _he thought, pulling the bolt back on his rifle, _time to run the gauntlet. I just hope to God we've got the Holy Spirit in us. _

"Alright, here's the plan." Zeke said as the others huddled around him in a ragged circle, Rachel held up by Skip on one side and Burke on the other. "We go in hard and fast, my guys will take the front and carve us a path straight to the vans. Will and Sam have the keys so they go in first while we give cover. Stay in a tight circle, my guys up front, the cops in back. Skip, Doc, you keep Rachel in the center of that circle. Shank, your guys watch their butts…just in case something unexpected happens."

The biker barked a bitter laugh. "Yeah, I'm sure there's a real small chance of anything like that going down, dude."

Ignoring Shank's somewhat prophetic words, Zeke took up a position on one side of the steel doors leading into the parking garage while the others moved into formation around him. Wesley took up the spot across from the lieutenant, rifle clutched tight against his chest, sweat beading down into his mustache but the Brit looked more determined than ever as he gave his friend a reassuring nod. Nodding back, Zeke sucked in one last deep breath of the stale, chill air and then drove his boot into the heavy steel doors, sending them crashing open with an echoing clatter as his team exploded into the parking lot. Weapon up and searching Zeke braced himself, ready to turn the first rotting horror that stumbled into his sights into fertilizer but something was wrong. Something was off.

"It's empty." Kathy breathed somewhere behind the lieutenant, her voice so soft he barely heard her at all if not for the echo.

Officer Ward was not entirely correct though. The garage was nearly pitch black, poorly illuminated by the ominous red glow of emergency lights hanging from concrete support struts lining the huge, wide-open area. Light from the Rangers and SWAT troopers weapons cut narrow swathes through the shadows crawling across the lot like a black ichors, glinting off the metal of the occasional police cruiser or the reflective paint of a parking space. At the far end of the lot rested a pair of bulky navy blue paddy wagons, positioned at awkward angles in front of a steel gate resting halfway to its peak, allowing the sun's pale rays to leak in but the darkness in the cavernous garage was too thick and complete to relinquish its hold so easily.

"Christ, it stinks in here." Tech said, coughing into one fist before pulling his shirt up over his nose.

Zeke peered back oddly at the little man – and then caught a whiff of it too. The acrid, sickly sweet smell of spoiled fruit tinged with the coppery undertones of dried blood. Funny, Lieutenant Wilcott thought, that he was becoming so used to the stench of death that he hardly noticed it anymore. _Funny and a little disturbing. _

"Bloody hell." Wesley mumbled at Zeke's side, pointing with one hand. "Look, lieutenant."

Zeke glanced at where the other man was pointing, at where his light lay and felt his stomach turn. Forming a wide pool around the two vans was a disgusting crimson stain, one with trails snaking off in every possible direction. A discarded helmet or weapon or shoe stood out among the red tarn like morbid ornaments. There had to be enough blood for fifty bodies…at least. Somewhere behind Zeke someone wretched.

"So much for the welcoming committee." Coop muttered, the red light making him look even more sickly somehow, his dark features drenched with sweat.

"This is impossible!" William bellowed, giving everyone a start. The captain's eyes were as panicked and frantic as his tone, his face tight and heavily creased as he started at that horrid lake of so much blood. "They couldn't have just vanished like this. There were dozens of them, _dozens_! They wouldn't have taken the bodies away with them, those things aren't clever enough for that. This can't be, it _can't_! They _were _here, I swear it."

"Keep your voice down!" Zeke admonished, raising a hand to quite the near-hysterical man's ranting. The last thing he needed now was William Brown cracking up, however he reminded himself to dread lightly. The only thing he needed less than a breakdown was Sam Brocket's hands around his neck again. The man certainly looked ready to go another round. "I believe you. Are you really surprised though, after all you've seen? This place loves turning logic and expectations on their heads. Now stay quiet and keep moving."

William's upper lip curled back in a rictus snarl and he looked as if he wanted to say more but an outburst from one of his troopers shut the captain's lips and drew all eyes his way.

"What the fuck?" The tall, stocky officer named Mitch Pommer said, wiping the front of his vest with gloved fingertips. He gasped when they came away sullied with a viscous black fluid.

"The hell?" Tech said, scrubbing a hand across his forehead and looking startled to find it smeared red.

Puzzlement lasted only a moment for the lieutenant. His heart turning to a lump of stone, the Ranger raised his eyes upwards as black and crimson droplets dripped down the front of his uniform with a steady _plip-plop _sound. Slowly, the ceiling came into view – and all the bodies that lay there.

There were dozens of them – William's dozens – men and women, all held in place by what Zeke could only think of as spider webs though the strands were far too thick and solid to have been spun by any spider he had ever lain eyes on. That the figures were all dead was no question, judging by the deep gashes across their faces or the tears in their necks – only the heads were visible among the mass of cobwebs holding them in place. Blood dripped from empty eye sockets and open mouths, some of it congealed so badly that it had turned as black as night.

Transfixed by the image from a nightmare Zeke stood helplessly frozen in place, the collage of all those dead faces burned into the backs of his eyes. Even if he survived Raccoon he would never live to forget this, never. One of the women was crying, someone had thrown up again but the lieutenant was unable to lower his gaze and see who. He could only stand there as if his boots had been welded to the ground, hypnotized. That is, at least, until the shadows cloaking the bodies began to move.

"Ah crap." Shank said absently from close by and Zeke didn't think he could have put it better himself.

The shadows grew and elongated, taking on individual shapes as they separated from one great black mass. Each was about as tall as a man of average height but slender and bony with knobs of spinal cord exposed beneath a thin layer of taut skin that was dark as coal and covered in a sheen of some nameless black ooze. Glowing yellow eyes peered out from above a lipless mouth of razor-sharp teeth. The creatures skittered across the ceiling, down the support struts, on scythe-like mandibles that flashed blood red in the haze of the emergency lights. A rattle echoed through the garage, rising on a steady crescendo to a squealing trill and only then was Zeke able to realize the noise was coming from the monsters and not his own mind.

"Fire!" He screamed, raising his M4 and loosing a short burst into the writing black flood racing along the ceiling but his order came too late. Everyone was already firing.

It was too late. The creatures were already snaking down the concrete struts, dropping from the ceiling like deadly black rain. The overwhelming scent of gunpowder filled the lieutenant's nose as the sound of so many shells skidding across the floor stole away his hearing but it was too late. The creatures – living shadows – were already upon them and people were dying. It was too late.

Page Break

Clutching at his ruined throat, Pommer staggered past Sam and hit the ground, spasming violently at his feet. Sam's first instincts were to go to the dying man but he forced himself to stay his ground and keep firing. There was nothing for it anyway, Pommer was already starting to grow still, his spasms subsiding as life flowed from the wound in his neck. Gritting his teeth Sam tore his eyes away from his dead teammate and held down the trigger of his MP5.

Within minutes of the attack Lieutenant Wilcott's brilliant formation had fallen into disarray. The survivors now stood scattered in a loose ring, firing indiscriminately into the horde of yellow-eyed beasts that were rapidly overtaking them. Every so often Sam could hear a shout of pain or fear rising above the din of gunfire as one of the mutants got close enough to score a blow of its own. Maybe the situation wasn't entirely Wilcott's fault but Sam felt someone should take the blame and Lieutenant Ezekiel Wilcott had yet to show himself as an expert strategist.

There was a flicker of movement to the trooper's left and he turned just in time to duck beneath a curved mandible. Shrieking the creature whirled and stuck out again and again Sam hardly had enough time to sidestep the attack. The little bastards were quick but he was quicker. Rolling up to one knee, Sam unleashed a three-round burst, popping the creature's head like an oil-filled balloon. Grimacing with disgust, Sam rose to his feet and looked about hurriedly.

That he had to get to one of the vans was a given but he couldn't leave without Kathy and William. They were the only friends he had left and no way was he going to let them wind up dangling from the rafters like those other poor bastards. He had failed to protect Foster back at the barricade but he could still protect them. No, he _would _protect them.

Even in the dimly lit lot, with battle raging all about him, the young trooper was able to see Burke and that Skip kid along with the Ranger pilot at their backs, huddling alongside one of the vans for cover. Burke had found a pistol somewhere and was firing like a man possessed as one of the monsters streaked towards him on spindly legs. Wide-eyed, his mouth hanging to his knees, Skip opened fire beside the doctor, the 9mm nearly leaping from his grasp with each report. Rachel, waxen-faced and sweating, was still able to pull the trigger and looked quite steady as she planted a shot through another piercing yellow eye.

Wilcott stood in the thick of it all, near the center of the garage, fighting back-to-back with that British pal of his. The two men fired wildly but with the practiced grace and accuracy of their profession. Surrounded as they were, the two Rangers made an impressive show of holding their own, swiveling and adjusting as new threats leapt from the darkness. Impressive, though Sam was reluctant to admit it even to himself.

He was unable to see any of the others but with all the muzzle flashes and angry shouts emanating from the corners of the garage more still had to be alive, fighting for their lives. Kathy and Will had to be among them, they had to be. Sam didn't know what he'd do if anything happened to them while he was still – and then he saw her. Kathryn Ward hit the ground not a yard in front of him, seeming to materialize from the shadows themselves, scuttling backwards as one of the squealing beasts slashed savagely at the air before her face.

"Kathy!" Sam cried, bringing his weapon to bear. Another three-round burst and the creature fell away.

"Sam!" The young woman called back with a startled expression, half-crawling half-running to where her savior stood. She clutched his forearm, staring into his eyes – her own a wildfire of uncontrollable panic and horror. "We have to get out of here! They killed Montigo, those things. I saw three of them drag him down. _Please, _we have to go now!"

Kathryn pulled hard on his sleeve but Sam managed to keep his feet planted, shouting to be heard above the never ending thunder of gunfire and the creatures inhuman screams. "Where's the captain? We can't leave without him!"

"I – I don't know." Kathy replied, still tugging on his arm with all her strength, her grimy face a tortured mask of fright and anguish. "We got separated. I don't know what happened to him. Please, Sam, _please _we have to go!"

"Damn it." He swore beneath his breath. William had to be alive, no matter what had happened the man was still made of iron and he'd give these squealing freaks what for. He had to be out there somewhere – fighting for his life in that writhing sea of swiping claws and blazing yellow eyes. Sam thought about telling Kathy to head for the van while he went in search of Will but dismissed the idea immediately. Kathy would hardly allow him to attempt something as suicidal as that on his own and what good would it do to find William – alive or dead – only to lose Kathryn in the process? Cursing under his breath again he turned to face the girl.

"Alright, make for the van where Doc and the others are holed up, I'll lay cover." He said but Kathy only stared back with that "oh no you don't" look written across her features. Sam sighed. Women were impossible. "Just _go _Kathy! Someone has to cover your butt and I'll need you to cover mine. Now _go!_"

Still looking as if she had eaten something bitter, Officer Ward simply squeezed Sam's arm then tore off to where Skip and his two companions were making their stand. Ejecting the spent clip from his submachine gun, Sam slapped a fresh one home and opened up again. Somewhere in the back of his mind it occurred to the trooper that it was his last magazine.

_Thirty rounds and a long way to go yet. _Sam wondered if anyone would make it out to see the sun again.

Page Break

"I'm out!" Slugger cried next to Shank, squatting behind what meager cover one of the support struts provided against the creatures endless onslaught. It truly did seem endless to Shank. For every one of the yellow-eyed freaks they killed two more sprang up out of the ground – well, dropped from the ceiling actually but it had the same effect. _Annoying, but annoying don't quite cut it when your life is at stake. _

"Shit." Tech grunted, his pistol clicking dry at the same moment Slugger threw away his empty Mossburg and pulled out his Smith & Wesson. "I told you we were all going to die here!"

"At least we'll leave beautiful corpses – well, I will anyways." Shank hollered, ignoring the other man's snort as he sent a load of buckshot into one mutant's chest, sending it sprawling. He trained the weapon upward quickly and fired again, bringing another of the bug-eyed bastards screaming to earth. "Running low!" He bellowed, firing his last round into another of the black skinned nightmares. The blast tore away half of its face. _See you later, ugly. _

"Where the hell are the other guys?" Slugger asked, the deep boom of his revolver making Shank's ears pop.

"Everywhere." He replied wryly, drawing his King Cobra.

Indeed, they did seem to be everywhere. The chatter of automatic fire droned on and on without end until one of the shadowy creatures screeched and someone shouted their last. Truthfully, Shank could have given a shit and a shake about where everyone else was, his only concern was to get his boys on one of those vans before the commandos or the five-oh decided that the second class citizens could take the bus instead and took off.

_Easier said than done though_, the big man reminded himself as five of the trilling beasts surged forward, mandibles waving and striking at nothing in particular but still attacking with a horrifying zeal. Bloodlust fueled the golden fire in their eyes.

"Things are about to get hairy!" He shouted, pulling the hammer back and sending a .357 missile through one demon's throat, nearly tearing its head off.

"This is not what I had planned my afternoon would be like!" Slugger shouted back, firing twice and managing to down another of the screeching monsters before he clicked empty. "Fuck! This was so _not _on the brochure!"

"Get used to it." Shank snapped back. The creatures were no more than ten feet away when Tech leapt into the fray. Firing his Glock with his one good arm he peppered the closest of the trio with 9mm rounds, the bullets ripping through lean flesh but not slowing the thing down a step. Shank fired once, popping the beast's skull like a can of soup. He shifted position, angling for another headshot, the creature so close now that he could smell the reek of its chemical musk, a scent that made him desperately want to sick up. He pulled the trigger and clicked dry.

_Stick a fork in me, I'm done, _Shank thought sardonically, spinning the revolver in his grip so that he held the barrel. It was a poor excuse for a weapon really but Edgar "Shank" Chaffer's mamma hadn't raised no quitter and if that gooey little bastard was going to kill him he'd have to do it with the teeth knocked out of his skull.

The creature shrieked its bloodthirsty cry, vaulting into the air, winding back for the killing stroke. Shank bellowed in defiance, rearing up, preparing to club the thing the moment it landed. A dark blur darted in front of the hefty biker, a shotgun held out in both hands, driving the stock into the beast's chest and sending it to the ground. Stunned, Shank watched dumbfounded as the figure spun and fired, turning the second creature into a mass of mangled flesh and oily black blood, before leveling the Mossburg with the beast below him and taking its head clean off with a second shot.

"Looking at something?" The snarky voice belonged to Eddie Gabbor who stood staring down at Slugger and Tech. The grizzled bikers returned his gaze with wide eyes and hanging jaws.

Officer Gabbor certainly looked worse for wear; there were criss-crossing tears in his bulletproof vest and he was practically covered in the thick black soup that ran through the creature's veins but he was intact and looking in possession of a whole mind at least. Hell, the kid had saved Shank's bacon and as far as he was concerned the man could have been screaming about purple elephants for all it mattered.

_Saved by a pig. Just when you think things can't get any more ironic. _Well, ironic or not, Shank owed the kid one now. For a brief, fleeting instant, looking at Eddie gripping the Mossburg as if he had been holding one since he was in the crib Shank almost though the kid would have made a good Psycho – had the circumstances been different. Despite everything the thought made Shank laugh harder than he had remembered doing so in a long while.

"What's so funny?" Eddie asked, cocking an eyebrow as Slugger and Tech clambered to their feet, glancing at Shank as if he had grown a second head.

"Nothing," he replied with a dismissive shake of his head, grinning wide and clamping the officer on one shoulder, "just didn't think you had it in you, kid."

"Whatever." Eddie frowned and shrugged. "Let's get the hell out of here."

Drawing one of his long-bladed boot knives, Shank and his two companions took off after the young officer towards where the vans lay. Maybe he was a little crazy but Shank began to laugh again and the more he did so the less chance fear had to take hold of him. _Better to die laughing than crying. _A good though – all things considered.

Page Break

"Move, Wes, go now!" Zeke yelled over his shoulder, dropping another of the yellow-eyed monsters with a quick double tap.

"What about you?" Wesley shouted above the bark of his rifle.

"I'll be so close behind I'll be knocking your boots off now get to the van!"

Without another word of protest, Wesley was on his feet and charging full throttle to where the SWAT vans lay, leaving his commander to watch his back. For Zeke, the heat of battle consumed him, the carbine like an extension of his arm. Burning yellow eyes and glistening fangs reared up before him, black blood poured from the wounds he inflicted and he was oblivious to all but the thunder of his weapon and the chilling shrieks of his attackers. The fear that death, quick and violent, could come at any moment was like a fist gripping his heart so tight it might burst. It was fear like nothing Zeke had experienced before but with the fear came a sense of life and vitality, like a wonderful drug flooding through every cell in his body and reminding him that in this moment he was alive – truly alive.

Another of the screaming nightmares hit the floor in a bullet-riddled heap and Zeke's rifle was empty. _Time to go. _No sooner had the thought come than the lieutenant was on his feet, running, adrenaline lending him speed even as the icy hand that held his heart tightened its grip.

Sweat streaming over his face, breath burning in his lungs Zeke caught sight of the others, those that were left anyways. Relief swept over him when he saw Rachel among the small group, her face painted with equal parts agony and determination, fighting through the pain. She was a fighter – his fighter. And there was Skip, Zeke could have smiled, the boy's eyes showed the terror storming in his mind and still he held his ground, placing his shots with a measure precision that took some soldiers years to master.

It seemed Burke had found a sidearm as well and held it in a way that made the gun seem to fit him – as if he had been meant to carry a weapon. The pistol jumped in his hands with each pull of the trigger but a surgeon had strong, practiced hands and he kept control of it. He fired again and again, never wincing at the sound of the report or the flash of the muzzle, as if gunplay was all in a days work for a Saint Jude's physician.

Wesley lay on the ground next to Burke, picking off targets with short bursts, he waved frantically with one hand when two figures darted out of the shadows. Sam Brocket and Kathryn Ward shouted something unintelligible to those gathered before climbing in on either side of the van. Where were Scott and Joe, Zeke wondered, or Eddie Gabbor and the biker trio? No matter, knowing Sam he'd probably take off before anyone had a chance to so much as grab onto the bumper. He had to make the man stop, had to make him wait for the others to catch up.

"Lieutenant!" Wesley cried urgently, his voice alive with panic and fright, then, inexplicably, there was no more ground beneath Zeke's feet. He ran on air for a moment – though it seemed a great deal longer – and then the ground came back up to meet him, the impact making his ears ring and his eyes roll.

Groaning, Zeke managed to roll onto his back. What had happened, he wondered, everything seemed suddenly fuzzy, his thoughts diluted and murky. Like a smudged mirror it was hard to receive a clear image from them. Where was he? Why was there wetness in his ears, on the back of his neck? Who had taken a hammer to his skull?

Ears still ringing, colors dancing and swirling before his eyes, the lieutenant looked down and found his legs bound to the knees in a coarse, white substance. Spider webs perhaps? No, that didn't make any –

Something shrieked a ferocious, hungry cry overhead. A woman screamed his name. A heavy weight fell atop Zeke's chest, pushing out what breath remained in him. The last thing he saw before the darkness came to take him was a pair of yellow eyes – like burnished gold. The eyes of a demon.

Page Break

Ryan Pierce, his uniform blood caked and diced up neatly, was almost to the vans when he saw one of the creatures drag the lieutenant down. A horrifying sight, that, watching as jets of webbing poured from the monster's mouth like spun thread, wrapping Lieutenant Wilcott from ankles to knees. It was like something from a nightmare, something that simply could not be…but was. Nightmares had become cruel reality in Raccoon City.

Halting in his steps, Ryan drew his .45 and charged towards the lieutenant. Zeke lay sprawled on the floor, eyes shut, blood trickling from his ears, as helpless as a newborn after the tumble he'd taken. The lieutenant needed help and Ryan was already indebted to the man. Cocking the slide, he pushed forward, ducking and dodging the scythe-like claws that struck from all around, seeking flesh.

He hadn't meant to react the way he had back in the precinct when that asshole Brocket attacked the L.T. – not really. What he had done was shameful and inexcusable – taking a young woman _hostage _like some low life criminal – but he had spent the whole night running from things that could only in existed in a madman's mind, fighting off mindless cannibals that had once been ordinary men and women with families and jobs and dreams. Death lurked around every corner, hid in every shadow and then Brocket had tried to kill the L.T. and he…he just snapped. Still no excuse but it was the truth at least.

_My own fault, _Ryan though bitterly as the creature – a Chimera, a thing of the dream world – sprang up onto the lieutenant's chest. He fired three times, each round landing within an inch of each other above one fiery eye. Blood sprayed from the ragged holes and the Chimera fell away.

What made the act so shameful was that Pierce had allowed his emotions to creep through and take hold. Emotions were powerful things, which was precisely why they had to be kept in check during a mission – fear most of all. Fear was a furtive, fleeting emotion – there one minute and gone the next but if allowed to take over it could cost lives – and nearly had in Ryan's case.

Feeling fear was one thing – no one could truly control how they _felt _– but letting it show was another matter. Showing that you were scared was a waste of energy, it didn't make you any less frightened, didn't change the situation for the better, it only allowed your fear to take hold more easily. But Ryan didn't even know if what he felt _was _just simple fright, rather it was like blind terror, white hot and nearly deadly. And he had allowed it to overwhelm him, to consume him and let raw emotion influence his actions.

_Never again though, _Ryan thought, reaching Zeke's side at last, barely registering the sound of one of the vans roaring to life. He fire the last few rounds in his clip into another of the approaching flood and unsheathed his boot knife with his free hand. _I'll never be that weak again. _Nodding inwardly, Ryan began to saw through the bindings around the lieutenant's legs.

"How is he?" Wesley asked, suddenly at his side, the chatter of his M4 nearly swallowing his words. Through all the dirt and blood coating the Brit's face, Ryan could see the anguish etched into his tight features. He and the L.T. went way back from what he heard.

"Alive." Ryan said coolly though he felt anything but. He had control of himself, of his fear. This was no time to show concern: to give that fear a crack to crawl through, a crack was all it ever needed. The lieutenant was breathing and that was good enough for the moment.

"Buggers have us surrounded." Wesley muttered. "There must have been hundreds of them nesting in the ducts and corners. Bloody hell! That bastard already has the van started!"

Horror welled up in Ryan at the thought of being left behind in the cavernous abyss of the garage. Left behind to be clawed to death by the endless horde of Chimeras. Devoured, ripped to shreds –

_No. I am in control. I am the master, not the fear, now think Pierce. Find a way out. _Swapping pistol magazines, Ryan started to fire. There had to be a way out. No matter what though, he wouldn't leave the L.T. He owed the man a debt and he meant to pay it in full.

Page Break

"Almost there!" Eddie shouted from ahead of Slugger as the vans came into view, one with its headlights flaring and engine rumbling. Some of the others had the back doors open and were climbing in though Rachel seemed to be protesting quite vehemently as Skip and Doctor Burke tried to bundle her into the back, kicking and screaming and swatting at the two men. A puzzling sight but Slugger knew that chicks were the strangest thing God had ever invented – well maybe next to all the monsters running around Raccoon tonight but he strongly doubted God had any hand in their creation.

"Where's everyone else?" Slugger asked upon reaching the vehicle where Burke and the Francis kid were still trying to subdue the frantic pilot. He had to shout to be heard above the storm of gunfire and dying cries of the creatures that infested the lot.

"Out there!" Skip called over his shoulder, his arms wrapped around Rachel's waist to keep her from leaping out of the van. "One of those things took Zeke down. I – I think Ryan and Wesley went back for him."

"We have to help!" Rachel wailed, her pale face contorted with worry and streaked with tears. "We can't just leave them out there!"

"No one's getting left behind." Slugger nearly jumped through the roof at the sound of the voice behind him. Turning he saw Captain Willy and the other two soldiers at his back. All were in various states of disrepair, their clothes and faces caked in oily black blood, their vests tattered and torn, faces pale and eyes wild. Sergeant Owens looked ready to empty his stomach at any moment. "I'll get the gate," Brown said evenly, his voice like winter's heart, "you go get the lieutenant." With that he dashed off to the entranceway firing his MP5 into the darkness as he ran.

"You heard the man," Eddie said to the two soldiers, cocking his shotgun. "Time for a rescue mission." Scott and Cooper nodded gamely, tearing off after Eddie into the center of the chaos, the eye of the storm.

"That mother fucker is crazy." Slugger sighed, staring after the young cop. No way would you ever catch him risking his neck for someone he barely knew. No-damn-way, especially when the odds were a thousand against one. Well, it was the kid's funeral not his. "Hey, Shank, you listening to me or what?"

The other Psycho sure didn't seem to be, staring off into space as he was. That meant he was thinking and when a goon like Shank set the rusty gears spinning in his head it usually meant bad news for Kyle Madigan and anyone else with the misfortune to be close by. Then the big man turned his way, his plans carved into the dirty flesh of his face for all to see and Slugger's fears were confirmed.

"Oh no," he said, warding the man off with his hands, "oh _hell _no! No way are you thinking about going after them! We're lucky to be alive as it _is._ No fucking _way _am I going back out there."

Shank only scowled, drawing a long-bladed knife in each hand. "We're only alive because that pig pulled our bacon off the fire. We owe him one and I'm going to return the favor, you two gimps can do whatever the hell you please."

Slugger tried to call after his friend but it was no use. Shank was already gone, his knives flashing in the darkness.

_Well, fuck him. _Slugger thought bitterly and then to his immense surprise, Tech took off after the man as well. Who would have thought that little weasel had any balls? _Fine, they're both idiots then. Let them die together for it, none of my concern. I'll just hop in the van and let those two dinks get greased, it's no more than they deserve for being so thickheaded. Morons. Yep, that's what I'll do. _

Slugger glanced back into the van where Burke and Skip had finally gotten Rachel settled and then out to the circle where his friends held off the growing tide of screeching, yellow-eyed monstrosities. With a mighty sigh, he hung his head, shrugged his shoulders and took off to join them.

"Hey, wait up!" He hollered, hefting Skip's bat, the only weapon he had left. "Wait up, I wanna die too!"

Page Break

_Funny, _Wesley thought, slinging his empty rifle around his neck and opening up with his sidearm. _Never in a hundred years would I have figured I'd go out this way. I was supposed to die a grandfather with more hair on my back than my head. I suppose it bloody well figures though. _

Maybe it did and maybe it didn't but there was no way he was going to leave Zeke to the mercy of these things. He was lost in a sea of burning golden eyes, a river of gnashing teeth and the horror alone should be enough to kill a man but it was nothing that could have taken him from Zeke's side – even to save his own neck. They were brothers, family, and family never gave up on each other even when the chips were down.

Wesley was just beginning to contemplate what death would be like – he had never believed in God, not really, and an eternity of nothingness seemed rather drab and boring – when he discovered that he and Ryan were no longer alone with the fallen lieutenant. Joe Cooper was suddenly beside him, covered from his head to his bootlaces in greasy black fluid, the SAW in his hands tearing creatures apart, cutting their lithe forms to ribbons. Scott Owens was there, too, crouching next to Ryan and looking absolutely mad with fear but still in enough possession of himself to use his M4 to full effect.

More fellows were coming as well, taking up the rear, forming a protective ring around Zeke. Eddie Gabbor knelt at the back, the Mossburg in his hands turning the charging, shrieking beasts into fertilizer. The bikers were with the lad as well, one with a pistol, another with a pair of knives and the third with a baseball bat. Together they shot and slashed and clubbed any of the ravenous buggers that came into range. _Good show, bloody good show. _Wesley could almost have laughed, maybe he'd die a hairless old man after all.

"Though you could use a hand, Wes." Coop said, the fire from his SAW knocking down a line of the horrid monsters, sending some scuttling up the struts for safety. "How's the boss?"

"Unconscious." Wesley answered, sending a pair of rounds through a glimmering eyeball. "We need to get him out of here now."

"I'll take him." Shank said, hurling a blade through the neck of an approaching – what was it Pierce had called them moments ago? Chimeras. "If I can lug Boomer's fat ass out of a bar when he's stone drunk I can handle the G.I. Joe like a sack of flour."

Well, he could have put it a tad bit more respectfully but the lad _had _volunteered to carry a man who for all intents and purposes was a stranger to him and that did take honor. Wesley felt his respect for the burly, unshaven, unkempt man – probably a criminal of some denomination – growing. Just a little bit mind you.

"Take him." Wes said, slipping a fresh clip – his last one – home. "We'll cover you."

Shank gathered Zeke into a fireman's carry, laying his body across broad shoulders and holding his rifle in one massive paw – the fellow looked a great deal like a bear – before falling back to the van with his head down. The sound of metal grating on metal, rusty hinges being forced into labor and the whir of machinery filled the air and light, pure golden sunlight, flooded the area like water. The Chimeras shrieked as the beams fell across them, stumbling back into the shadows as if scalded. Someone had opened the gate. Someone had given him an opportunity.

"Go now!" Wesley ordered, jumping to his feet as the creatures retreated to the darkness again. The others needed no further prompting or sigh. They were up and running in an instant, towards safety, towards the sun. How long had it been since he had last seen the sun? Too long. Far too long.

Page Break

Sunlight, beautiful, glorious sunlight poured over Slugger, nearly blinding him after so long in the dark but he hardly cared. There was hope in that wonderful light and the promise that danger could not touch him amid all those golden beams. The sunlight had been comforting to him as a child when his young mind had invented creatures that dwelt in the dark of night. Tonight he had discovered that all those childish terrors were real. So was it not logical to assume that protection lay in the sunlight? _Almost there. Ten more steps and I'm there. _

Ten more steps and he was home free, just ten more steps – and then it hit him. Something dark and heavy and…_slimy…_ landed across his shoulders, pulling him down. Pain came, hot and sudden, before surprise could register, filling his veins with fire. Screams filled his ears and it took the Psycho a moment to realize one of them was his own.

Without thinking he writhed and lashed out wildly at the thing on his back, the bringer of the pain. He swung his arms and kicked his legs, anything to stop the pain. Oh, the horrible, burning agony of it! Finally, his elbow connected with what felt like bone and the weight fell from his back with a strangled, animalistic cry. Dazed, Slugger rolled onto his back and felt fresh waves of biting ice crawl up his spine. Yellow eyes met with his, a chemical stench invaded his nostrils, making him want to gag. Bellowing – in rage or pain he did not know – he struck out with Skip's bat and the left side of the creature's head seemed to burst.

The pain, still like an inferno in his bloodstream, clouded the biker's thoughts. Tenderly, he pressed his hand to his neck, ran the other down his back where the fire burned the hottest. Both came away dripping with blood. Realization hit him like a kick in the gut.

_Bit me. It bit me. _With that knowledge came fear, terror hotter than the pain screaming in his neck and back. _Infected, Burke said everyone that gets bit is infected. Oh God, oh Jesus! _

"Slugger!" Tech called and he looked up to see the skinny man staring at him with wide, horrified eyes. He had seen what had happened. He knew what the doc had said. _No one that's infected can be allowed to leave the city. _

His blood on fire, his mind a murky bog of confusion and fear, Slugger wrapped on bloody hand around the grip of Skip's bat and climbed to his knees, panting hard. _They have to leave me behind. I'm infected. They have to abandon me here, in the dark. _

Tech looked on, frozen with fear as Slugger stared back at him mutely. Shank was loading Zeke into the back with Burke and Wesley's help. Eddie was there as well, all but throwing himself into the back with Coop and Scott. Only Tech had seen him go down it seemed. Good, maybe it would be easier that way.

"Go!" Slugger snarled, spinning just in time to crack another obsidian skull with a powerful swing. "Get out of here!" Still Tech hesitated, eyes wide, mouth gaping, too horrified to even raise his weapon. "I'm already dead!"

Without sparing another look for his friend, Slugger climbed to his feet. Another of the stinking shit heads leapt for him and he struck it hard across the ribs. Another came to take its place and with a defiant cry, Slugger split its head open with a downward stroke. Again and again they came, slashing and screaming, an endless wave of death incarnate. All was lost to Slugger in a haze of fury, the fire in his blood lending him strength now as he swung over and over, shouting challenges at the beasts that sought his life – at the beasts that had already taken it. Soon, the bat was too slick with blood – his and theirs – to hold.

"Come on you fuckers," he wheezed, dropping to his knees, "finish it already. I don't have all fucking night."

Trilling, bloodthirsty cries filled his ears as a claw raked across his chest and took his breath away. Another tore through his right arm and Slugger would have cried out if he could have. Then a third mandible took him in the temple and he didn't need to fight anymore. It was finished and the last thought Slugger had was that he had lived long enough to see the sun again.

Page Break

After opening the gate, William rounded the corner of the van just as one of the Psychos – the thin, weasel-faced one who was always scowling at something – came running up. Oily black blood and grunge formed a layer on the man's face but still William was able to see there was something different about him. He wasn't scowling anymore, he looked quite scared, horrified in fact, and…were those _tears _burning in his eyes? It seemed almost impossible on such a sour looking individual.

"Is everyone here?" William asked in a rush.

"Yeah," the skinny fellow snapped venomously. There _were _tears cutting through the dirt and blood on his face. "Yeah, everyone's fucking here!"

The biker bounded into the back of the van and William ducked his head inside for a quick look. The others were all gathered around Lieutenant Wilcott, who lay stretched out on the floor with his head cradled in Burke's lap as he searched for a pulse. Rachel knelt at his side, clutching the Ranger's shoulder and shaking him gently as if trying to rouse him from a light doze. Wilcott's men all looked just as solemn, just as pained as the young woman. Even Skip, huddled near the lieutenant's feet, looked on the point of tears himself.

"Captain?" Sam called from the driver's seat, stirring William's attention. The young trooper looked confused and frightened and angry and a hundred other things but at least he was alive. The rest of William's men hadn't been so lucky. They had followed him, trusted him, and now they were all dead because of it. "Captain, let's go!"

Feral, animalistic screams rose to a deafening pitch behind William. Glancing over his shoulder he saw that the creatures had overcome their fear of the sun and were pushing forward in full force now. Hundreds of them were coming forward, golden eyes ablaze with the thrill of the hunt, the anticipation of the kill. Bits of nameless gristle hung from outstretched mandibles, fell from open jaws. All that was left of the men he had commanded – men who had been his friends – now all dead. All dead.

"Get out of here, Sam." William said coldly, calmly, trying to ignore the younger man's sudden panicked expression as his captain slammed the doors shut. Will wedged his MP5 between the handles, unholstered his pistol and let it clatter to the ground. "Get out of here."

_All that's left to do is die. _The thought had become like an old friend to William and he had even spoken it to himself many times throughout the morning for the reassurance that there would be an end to all the guilt, all the shame. Jacob Foster was dead. Pommer and Montigo and the rest were all dead. His wife, his beautiful Ellie, was years dead. All dead and all that was left was William Brown.

"Not anymore." He whispered to himself, taking a step to greet the ravenous horde of teeth and claws, barely hearing when someone called his name. When he spoke, he spoke to Death. "I won't fight you anymore, I won't resist. Come and take me back to Ellie and Jake." He stretched his arms wide in greeting, ready to embrace his end, his destruction. "Take me back home."

Death answered him. One of the beasts shrieked and threw itself forward, digging its talons into William's chest. The pain was a momentary, fleeting instant though as pointed teeth sank into the tender flesh of his neck and wrenched his throat out. _All that's left to do is die. _

The creatures cries fell away, sound itself faded to nothing. William smiled as Death came to claim him. He was going back to his Ellie and Jake and the rest. He was going back home and there was no need to be afraid anymore.

Page Break

Tears streamed down Sam's cheeks as he pressed down on the accelerator, speeding out into the afternoon light but he barely felt them. Kathy gently lay a hand across his lap and squeezed his knee but she might as well have been touching a statue of ice. He felt just as numb.

Jacob Foster and William Brown, men he had known and respected his entire adult life were gone now. His teammates were all gone now, lost to the insanity of Raccoon City. How much longer, he wondered, before it claimed him? He hoped he died before Kathy. He had promised to protect her – but he had promised himself to do the same for William as well.

Overhead the sky was slowly fading from blue to gray. Clouds were rolling in, suffocating the sun. Darkness was coming. Darkness was the lord of Raccoon City now.

Sam drove on, oblivious to everything, scenes of horror playing behind his eyes. He was back at the barricade, fighting hopelessly against the tide of undead overwhelming his friends, killing them in the most horrid fashion. He was back on the streets, desperately seeking haven with Kathy all the while Jacob was stumbling against him, telling him that he felt sick. He was back in the garage, watching helplessly as William offered himself up and one of those strange creatures ripped his throat out.

The road stretched out ahead of him. He had to get everyone to Saint Jude's, Burke's plan had to work. Not for himself but for Kathy and the others. Definitely for Kathy. Sam thought that even if he did survive Raccoon he would only live long enough to eat his gun a few days later.

Deep gray clouds obscured the sun completely now. Shadows grew wider in the desolate streets. Darkness was coming.

Author's Note: I have a confession to make, Readers…I am a filthy liar. I said I'd try and have this up soon and yet I seem to have failed. Nevertheless here it is and I hope you will enjoy it. I also hope you will continue to read Three Days In A Nightmare, even if my updates are a bit spotty. I will try and have another one up within a week or two so please stay tuned. Please read and review when you get a chance. Tell me what/who you like/don't like but tell me something. Oh and if you want some murder and mayhem, check out my man E-Z B's fic "Darkness Arises." Peace out and stay tuned.


	23. Reunion

**Chapter 22: Reunion**

October 2, 1998

5:03 PM

En route to Saint Jude's Hospital

The world had turned to blackness, nothingness. It was much like a dream, though one lacking any color or sensation. Formless, Zeke floated in that dark void outside time and space.

He wondered what had happened to send him to such a strange place. Was he dead? He didn't think so and if he was it had certainly been a non-dramatic death: no white light, no choir of angels, no nothing. What was he doing here then, in the world between worlds?

Voices came from somewhere outside the void. They were dulled though and somewhat muffled as if he were hearing them through a pane of glass. Still, they were familiar and Zeke was grateful for their sound after drifting along alone in the dark for what seemed like ages.

"_How is he?" _The voice was Rachel's and she sounded frightened. Frightened for him, the lieutenant thought. If he had had a mouth in the void he would have smiled.

"_Unconscious._" Burke replied, cool as ever. The man could have been discussing whether or not he thought it likely to rain. _"There's blood in his ears, I'd almost guarantee that he has a concussion, especially after a fall like that." _

A concussion? _Well, at least I'm not dead. _A fall though? That didn't sound right. Zeke remembered the garage, he remembered the bodies hanging from the ceiling, he remembered fighting for his life with Wesley at his back, he remembered…well, after that it got a little hazy.

"_Is he going to live?" _That sounded like Scott, his tone more collected and steady than the last time they had spoken. In hindsight, Zeke regretted chewing the other man out as he had done. Scott was a good soldier, he had proved himself countless times already.

_"I'd say so," _Burke answered, "_but he could always have a hairline fracture to the skull, maybe some internal bleeding, something I can't pick up by feel alone. We'll just have to keep his feet and head elevated for now. He needs to be kept warm too…Mister Tech, please pass me your jacket." _

_"Come on, lieutenant," _Coop's baritone voice made the void shake. "_You can't leave us hanging like this, boss. You've got to wake up. Come on, boss, open your eyes." _

Why did they have to insist on calling him that? The void, its walls darker than night, shook again, more violently this time. The voices grew closer as the void shrank and a new sensation was sparked inside Zeke, an awareness that consciousness lay just over the horizon. So close he could almost touch it. The awareness grew and as it did the void trembled, quaking as its hold gave way then shattered as Zeke found the horizon and, with it, the strength to open his eyes.

Everything was a hazy blur at first, like a mirage dissipating in a gust of wind. Slowly, the shapeless colors melded into familiar, dirty faces, all peering down intently at him. Burke's was the first he recognized, looking down at him with that birdlike quality he took on when lost in thought. Zeke realized his head was propped up in the man's lap, something warm was draped over his chest, and – not wanting to be coddled any longer – tried to rise to a sitting position. It proved to be a very bad decision.

Someone locked his head in a vise and then proceeded to tap dance on it…in steel-toed boots. Well, that's certainly what it felt like anyway. Sagging back with a groan, Zeke waited for the throbbing in his skull and the nauseas currents in his gut to subside before opening his eyes again. He touched a finger to the back of his head and it came away sticky with his own blood. A concussion huh? Well, there was always room for things to get worse in Raccoon City it seemed.

"How are you feeling, Lieutenant Wilcott?" Burke asked, his voice as dry and dusty as century old parchment. Burke seemed like a good enough physician but his bedside manner left something to be desired.

"Like Coop broke a lunch tray over my head." Zeke said wryly and heard the muscular corporal bark a laugh. "I'm fine, really, just a bump on the head. Where are we? What happened?"

"We're in the back of one of the SWAT vans, headed for Saint Jude's." Rachel explained with a gentle smile and an equally gentle hand on his shoulder. The warmth of her fingers was a Godsend after the banality of the void. After his stay in Raccoon, Zeke thought he had almost forgotten how to feel anything but cold and damp and hungry. "There was…an attack…in the garage." She swallowed thickly and her smile vanished. "Do you remember any of that?"

"Unfortunately." Zeke grunted. He remembered everything: The golden-eyed monsters that fell from the sky, the screams of dying men, the bodies glued to the ceiling bleeding all over him. Oh yes, he remembered _everything_. "I'm glad to see you guys made it out alright though. How many of the others made it?"

Silence and downcast eyes were the only answer the lieutenant received and he felt his chest tighten. Rachel stared sadly at the floor, Coop stamped his boots and frowned. Eddie went about checking his shotgun and even Ryan shifted uncomfortably on the bench. Finally, with a great, defeated heave of his shoulders, Wesley spoke up.

"We're it." He said concisely. "We lost Captain Brown and the SWAT lads." The Brit glanced over to where Shank and Tech sat with their heads bowed, staring at their hands with no expression. "And Slugger."

"Shit." Zeke whispered, feeling what little energy remained in his body evaporate. Eight more deaths. Eight more men dead and he had been in charge. It had been his plan, he should have anticipated an attack from above. He should have thought things through longer, in more detail. He should have – he should have done something.

_Should have, should have, should have! You sound like an old geezer bitching about all his regrets. _The voice in his head chided. _What you _should _do is suck it up and think about what comes next on the checklist for getting out of Dodge. There's still a lot of people depending on you to see them through this mess so you can't call it quits yet, Lieutenant Wilcott. You can piss and moan over what you should have done _after _you get everyone out of here. _It was hard to admit but the voice did have a point.

"Any word from command?" Zeke asked hopefully but Scott only shook his head somberly.

"Nothing." He said. "Face it, boss, they've written us off back home."

That figured. Zeke didn't blame General Bosa and the others at command though – not with his whole heart at least. No one could have known how badly things would get buggered up – or how bloody they would get either. Captain Sullivan had said himself that it was supposed to be another routine operation which meant the guys back at HQ had to be doing back flips right about now trying to figure out what had gone wrong. Then again, they could have at least made an effort to stay in contact with the grunts in the middle of the whole debacle.

"Alright, help me up, Doc, my ass is going numb laying here." Zeke said and with Burke's assistance managed to sit up. His head still felt like someone had a jackhammer going full blast inside his skull but at least everything stayed in focus and he didn't feel the need to purge every meal he had ever eaten.

Shrugging off the blanket that was Tech's jacket he handed the stained garment back to its owner and inadvertently locked eyes with Shank. The big man was seated across from his friend, turning his hands over and over in his lap, his face as smudged and filthy as everyone else's. Dower hardly touched the surface of all the emotions storming in his dreary gaze.

"Look, Shank…Tech," Zeke began unsteadily, "if it's worth anything, I'm sorry about your friend. I know we're all sorry."

The others nodded and Shank looked up, perhaps a little startled to be pulled out of his brooding by the sound of his own name. He studied each face in turn with puffy, red-rimmed eyes then fixated on Zeke. With an exhausted sigh the biker shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.

"It ain't nothing," he said, going back to examining his hands for a moment, "my fault I guess. He's dead and we're alive, it's as simple as that. Let's just get to the hospital so we can find the rest of my homies and fly the coup." He sighed again. "Besides, the last thing Slugger would want is for all of us to sit around crying over his ass."

Tech turned red at that for some reason but Zeke hardly paid it any mind. The man had seemed quirky from the beginning and he had just lost a close friend to top it all off. Unexpectedly, the van lurched to a sudden halt, forcing those seated to grip their benches to stay upright. Eddie swore beneath his breath and Sam Brocket stuck his head into the back from the driver's seat.

"We're here." He said flatly, then climbed out of the driver's side door followed by a concerned looking Kathryn Ward.

There came the sound of something being slid from the door handles – as if they had been barred – then both were promptly flung open by Sergeant Brocket. Sam looked the worst of all, Zeke thought, the trooper's face white as a sheet beneath all the dirty and blood smudged with tears. Haunted, reddened eyes peered back at the lieutenant, surrounded by dark circles of purpled flesh. Sam's mouth was a grim line.

_Tread lightly, _Zeke reminded himself as the others climbed out ahead of him, helped down by Kathy while Sam kept watch. When it came Zeke's turn he scooped his rifle up off the floor, hopped down and prepared to walk past Brocket – then halted and tapped the man on the shoulder.

"What do you want?" Sam spat, all but growling when he saw who it was trying to attract his attention.

"Listen," Zeke said, meeting the man glower for glower. Sam made him nervous but he was hardly going to allow the young cop to intimidate him. "I realize that I'm not your favorite person for some reason, and that's cool, but I just wanted you to know that I'm sorry about what happened to William too. If it counts for anything – "

"It doesn't." Sam snarled, drawing several wary glances. Wesley half raised his rifle before Zeke waved him off. "You're sorry? You didn't even _know, _Will! What do you have to be sorry for?" Fresh tears began to brew in the younger man's eyes at the name of Captain Brown and despite his own feelings for the man, Zeke felt a pang of sympathy for Sam. "You're right about one thing though, I _don't _like you and I _don't _trust you. Good men died today because of you. Now, let's get off the streets before more of the…_things_… in this city sniff us out."

Zeke shook his head as Sam stalked off. _That could have gone better. _Zeke certainly reciprocated the younger man's feelings of dislike and mistrust but he also felt that Brocket had a point: men had died because of him. Sighing, Zeke jogged to catch up with the others.

Page Break

"Blaze!" Shank called in a broken voice, racing towards the lone, prone figure on the ground in the lobby of the emergency room. "Blaze!"

Zeke stopped short at the sight of the body and grimaced. The man had died hard. His barrel chest was a bloody mess, a ragged hole punched through the space between a pair of eyes that stared unseeing at the ceiling above. Those eyes would never see anything again. Judging by the numerous puncture marks dotting his upper body, whatever had killed Shank's friend wasn't one of the creatures infesting the city. Zeke had seen enough war to recognize a gunshot wound when he saw one.

_He doesn't _look _infected though, _the lieutenant thought as Shank and Tech sank down next to the lifeless form – Blaze – and shut his glassy eyes. Tech cloaked the dead man's face with his jacket. Zeke could sympathize with the pair – he knew what it was like to lose friends. _Another trigger-happy yahoo maybe? Lord knows anyone with a weapon has to be jumpy enough as it is and if Blaze came up behind them – startled them – well, that'd be all she wrote. But why pump him full of bullets and then cap him? Or vice versa? Better not risk it._

"Secure this area," Zeke said to the Rangers at his back. "Check around and see if you can find any clues as to who lit up our friend here."

"If you find the fucker, I've got dibs." Shank said hollowly as Wesley and Ryan moved around the corner to investigate the alcove by the elevator while Coop and Scott walked down the hall to where a deserted nurse's station lay. He removed something from Blaze's jacket then, what looked like a pair of nine-millimeter pistols, though custom made with a purple finish. Shank tucked the firearms into the waist of his jeans and stood up, scrubbing at his nose. With a sigh, Tech followed suit.

Shaking his head, Zeke took a final look at Blaze's body before glancing over his shoulder to where Skip and Burke stood holding Rachel upright. The man was just another casualty, another life waster in this horrid place. How many more, Zeke wondered, how many more would have to die before the day was through?

"Skip, Doc, set Rach down on the bench over there." Zeke gestured to a wooden-slated bench propped against one corner with his rifle. "Here, give her some water." He handed Skip his canteen and the younger man gingerly set Rachel down on the seat, she smiled and nodded her thanks, taking the canteen from him. She was still too pale, too wan, to give the lieutenant any sense of security about her health. How long had she been fighting the pain? How long had it been sapping her strength – her life?

"Lieutenant Wilcott?" Burke asked beside him. Zeke's eyes snapped up from Rachel to the physician and he was surprised to actually see some expression on the man's face for a change. He looked…almost eager, though perhaps anxious would have been a better word. "I really think that it would be advisable not to have your men dilly-dally with um…securing…this area. We should get to the helipad as quickly as possible." Burke finished, dry-washing his hands.

Zeke quirked an eyebrow, scrutinizing the doctor. Who was this man, he wondered, and what he had done with the immovable mountain that was Greg Burke? He had never seen the man look so unnerved – rubbing his hands together, licking his lips, shifting his eyes – what had brought on the change? Perhaps it was just being back at Saint Jude's, the epicenter of the outbreak and the start of the doctor's own personal nightmare but coming back there _had _been his idea.

"Look, Doc, I'm just as eager to leave this place behind as you are." Zeke said. "I am, but that's no reason for us to get hasty. We might have a gunman on the loose now who doesn't have our best interests in mind and I'd rather not stumbled into him or her with my pants around my ankles. My guys are going to check around and make sure everything is kosher, then we'll get the show on the road." Zeke softened his voice before continuing. "Listen, Doc, I know this is the place where the shit hit the fan but if you're worried about anyone getting infected…don't be. You said it yourself, that direct contact was the only way to contract this thing now, right?"

"Well, yes." Burke replied, nodding, but he didn't seem any less anxious to be off. "The chances of it still being airborne are slim but I still think it would be best to be on our way. I know Major Parker is injured but…just look around. It's far too quiet. Something is not right here."

Quiet was the word for it all right, Zeke thought as he surveyed the lobby. The only sounds aside from shifting feet and low murmurs was the hum of the overhead lights, casting illumination down on the cream colored tiles. There was little else to see aside from the elevator and disaster area of the nurse's station where papers lay strewn about the floor like confetti at a wedding. Near the front entrance was what was left of a former barricade that had taken the collective strength of Shank and Coop to push through from the other side; a jumble of benches and chairs and even a soda machine. Everywhere the pungent scent of detergent and dried blood assailed the senses. Zeke found the aroma ironic to say the least.

Burke had a point though, when things got this quiet in Raccoon City something was up. Silence had led to nothing but tragedy so far: It had been quiet before the Scuttlers made their appearance at Skip's apartment. It had been quiet before Eddie and the Psychos came charging towards the station with those hairless gorillas chasing them. It had been quiet in the garage at Precinct 24 before those yellow-eyed terrors showed up and stole eight lives – nearly including his own.

Zeke was about to tell Burke that he understood his concerns – all too well, really – but now was not the time to get sloppy when Wesley and Ryan returned. Sergeant Creeks carried a handful of metallic bullet casings, frowning down at them as he moved them around in his outstretched hand for Zeke's examination. Ryan just looked on silently, grim as always.

"Assault rifle," Zeke said after a cursory look at the shells and he, too, found himself frowning, "an AK or some version of one I'd say."

"We also found this." Ryan added holding up another casing, a .45 round by the looks of it. "Either we had more than one shooter or this guy was ready for war."

Startlingly, Skip laughed from his position beside Rachel. "Dude, this is _America_," he said with a wide, all encompassing gesture, "are you really surprised? Cripes, one guy can own a small arsenal provide he's got the right paperwork."

"Fair enough," Sam said, dropping onto the bench next to Skip with Kathy plopping down next to him. Skip eyed the trooper warily – he had seen his outburst back at the station. After a moment, he edged a few inches away from the officer. "The only gun store in the entire _city _is Kendo's though and that place doesn't sell anything automatic, I can tell you that. I doubt it was an ordinary civi packing that kind of hardware."

For a change, Zeke found himself agreeing with the other man. An AK and a .45 pistol…that sounded like a paramilitary kit to the lieutenant even if it made no real sense. _Why would the government send in another team after the first four got torn to bits? A rescue squad maybe? Ha, who am I kidding, that'd be too much to ask for. _

"Whoever he is," Shank spat, "he's getting up by his nuts for what he did to Blaze and that's a fucking guarantee!"

While he did sympathize with the man, Zeke hoped the biker was just venting. He doubted he could stop a man like Shank from running off and doing something rash in the even that they did stumble across the shooter.

"All clear, lieutenant," Scott said as he came running up alone. "Coop is still back there, said he saw something he wanted to get a closer look at. Wouldn't say what though."

The double meaning in Owens' words was all too apparent and Zeke felt his own inner alarms begin to jangle. What exactly had been so important for Coop to want to check out alone – in a deserted hospital of all places? A certain jamming device maybe? No, no, Joe Cooper was good people but…

"Go back and get him." Zeke said quickly. "I don't want anyone wandering around on their own." He hoped the double meaning in his words was just as clear. It seemed to be as Scott nodded emphatically before running back to the nurse's station full tilt, calling out for Coop.

_Trust is another name for death, _Martin Wilcott's words rang through his head like a warning chime, _trust only those you have to and them only half as much as you trust yourself. _After tonight that didn't leave a whole lot of trust to go around.

A cheery _ping _from the elevator brought all weapons up, the letter _G _highlighted above the doors with a yellow glow. Wondering what new horror lay on the other side, thirsting for warm blood, the lieutenant was more than a slight bit surprised when the doors parted to reveal a plain-looking man with a braided red beard staring back at him. As a measure of his astonishment, Zeke didn't notice the rifle – an M4 – in the man's hands until he drew the bolt back.

Upon a more detailed inspection, the fellow wasn't so plain looking after all. He could have passed for Shank's twin in terms of height, weight and facial hair but the strangest thing about the newcomer was his clothing. He wore a Ranger's flak jacket over a tight black t-shirt and a Kevlar helmet held down locks of grungy, unkempt hair. Resting on the man's broad back was a rucksack bulging with contents.

"You know," The stranger said in a gruff, gravely tone like rocks rolling down a hill, "I'm getting real tired of you G.I. Joes sticking guns in my face. Now, if you wouldn't mind, how about we put the weapons up and have a civilized conversation?"

Zeke stared deep into the other man's blue eyes. There was no madness there, just bright sparks of fear and agitation and exhaustion. All normal emotions for someone lost in Raccoon City tonight. Nodding, Zeke gestured for the others to lower their firearms then did so himself – not too low but enough to make the other man feel secure enough to follow suit as well.

"Who are – " He began but was cut off as Shank and Tech burst out in unison.

"Shots!" They exclaimed. "You son of a bitch!"

What followed next was a ponderous reunion to Lieutenant Wilcott. The three men erupted with laughter and smiles, embracing one another roughly – and then they each took turns slugging each other in the gut or upside the head – all the while chuckling like it was improv night at the Apollo. After the last fist had been thrown the trio stood around wiping tears from their beards and waiting for their laughter to subside.

"White boys." Eddie muttered with a disapproving shake of his head.

"Loons." Wesley nodded agreement.

"Where's Slugger?" Shots asked, tone suddenly serious. "He was with you guys right?"

"He…he's dead." Shank stuttered, his face falling and Tech took to staring at his bootlaces with his hands in his pockets. "Something…he…he got killed on the way over here. It's a long story, man."

"Blaze is dead too." Tech added sadly, not looking up from his feet but thrusting a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the biker's body.

"What about Boomer?" Shank asked hopefully – hoping against hope maybe.

Shots took one look at the bloody figure wrapped in Tech's jacket and swallowed thickly. "He didn't make it either." Shots closed his eyes and shook his head. "Some fucking spooks carrying serious firepower wasted him."

_More casualties_, Zeke thought soberly as Shanks bellowed an oath and struck a wall. Then something Shots said registered. "Wait, what was that? Who killed him?"

Shots gave a small start when he realized the question was meant for him, apparently having forgotten about the Ranger's presence momentarily. "These spooks," he repeated, "came out of fucking nowhere and tried to grease us both. Packing pistols and Aks and grenades and God knows what else. Nearly zapped me too but I guess Lady Luck was on my side of things – can't say the same for Haag or Boomer though."

_Captain Haag too? Jesus! _ "How many of them are there?" Zeke asked coldly, if these so-called spooks had killed a Ranger then they weren't U.S. government operatives. If they had killed a Ranger he wanted blood. At least it explained where Shots' attire had come from. "How long ago was this?"

"Hours ago." The biker shrugged, adjusting the pack on his back. "They've been hunting me ever since. Crafty fuckers too, nearly nailed me once or twice." As if for proof, Shots raised his right forearm, wrapped in a bloody bandage. "I've been trying to find a way out of here but wandering the halls in this place is like being a rat in a maze. Every exit I've found has been barricaded up pretty solidly too."

"Good thing you happened upon us then," Zeke said gesturing to Burke who now stood perched at the corner, studying Shots in that birdlike way of his – _still _dry-washing his hands. "Doc Burke over there used to work here. He said there were some medivac choppers here we could take to skip town. Right Doc? Hey…Burke…snap out of it."

Zeke snapped his fingers and Burke gave a sharp start, nearly gasping with surprise. Lieutenant Wilcott hoped the physician wasn't starting to lose his mind this late in the game. Maybe being back in Saint Jude's was just more traumatic for the man than he had first suspected. Zeke prayed that was the reason for his odd behavior.

"Yes…yes, of course, just like you said, Lieutenant Wilcott." Burke said licking his lips. He was actually _sweating _now. "Tell me, Mister…um….Shots, what did these men who attacked you look like?"

Shots shrugged, propping the M4 against one meaty shoulder as the others watched quietly. Out of the corner of his eye Zeke could see Scott pacing back with Coop in tow. Good.

"They wore gas masks so I couldn't tell you what they looked like, really, " Shots said, "but they were dressed all in black – vests, boots, pants – and didn't seem to have any issues with gunning down a bunch of people just minding their own business. About four or five of them as far as I could tell – might be more as far as I know though – seemed like military types to me."

_Another puzzle, _Zeke thought irritably, _one involving a paramilitary unit armed to the teeth and equipped with orders to eliminate any survivors – civilian or otherwise apparently. How do I solve this one? _

"Wes, go get Rachel and Skip." He ordered. "I'd rather not have to deal with these guys if it's possible so let's get moving. Burke, you know this place best so you're my navigator. Lead the way."

The man flinched at that – as if someone had struck him across the face! Zeke narrowed his eyes at the doctor and he gave a shaky nod but it did nothing to rid the lieutenant of the icy feeling in his stomach. What was going on with Gregory Burke? _Who can I trust? Can I trust anyone at all? _Zeke wished he knew but all he could do was give the order to move out.

Page Break

"_Why _are we still here?" Rico demanded angrily, throwing his arms up angrily but Smith only stared back at him, his body language giving away nothing. Smith never gave away anything he didn't want to. " You already found the sample case and if your mole was going to contact you he would have done so by now! You're wasting time having Sven and Boris and the others searching for that bearded freak. He's just _one _guy and besides it won't be long before the White House decides to press the button and wipe this place off the map. Which – I might add – is _another _reason we should be headed for the AMRS already!"

In truth, Rico would have liked a peace of the man with the beard – he had nearly taken them all out with that frag – but the hours it was taking to find the bastard were simply not worth it. Dead was dead, either way, and it would not be long before the president decided to turn Raccoon City into the world's largest pothole. Did Smith see it that way though? Of course not.

"Calm yourself, major, you're making a scene." Smith said coolly as if chiding a misbehaving child and Rico decided then and there the man would have to die – and stay dead this time. "I assure you we have plenty of time and while I _do _have the sample," he raised the steel briefcase, carved with the red and white Umbrella shield, that he carried in one hand, "it is still possible my mole may try and contact me. If he was unable to radio in then his orders were to pass suspicion and rendezvous at the alternate extraction point – the AMRS. As for the survivor your men are looking for now…well, I prefer not to leave any loose ends."

Rico scowled. The man wouldn't be a loose end after he was bombed through the pavement. "I still think – "

An electronic beeping emanating from Smith's utility belt cut the major off in mid-sentence. The supervisor unclipped a sleek midnight black handheld computer from his belt and studied the screen for a moment before tapping at the keypad. For some reason, though he could not see the man's face, Rico would have _sworn _Smith was grinning.

"What's with the gizmo?" He asked, nodding towards the device.

"It's a GPS locator." Smith explained, still looking at the screen. When he spoke again his tone was amused – a bad sign. "It seems my mole is alive after all, Major Da Silva, and has activated the transponder he was given for an emergency such as this. Radio your team, major, tell them to report back here on the double." He _had _to be grinning. "We're going hunting."

Author's Note: A new chapter for you, my Readers and delivered ahead of schedule since the last one was so long in the making. Please read and review. I carve the feedback good or bad, just tell me something. I hope you enjoy and stay tuned for future updates within another week or two. Enjoy!


	24. Donovan Winters' Journal

**Chapter 23: Donovan Winters' Journal**

October 2, 1998

6:35 PM

Saint Jude's Hospital, 5th Floor

The elevator had stopped working on the fifth floor – simply cut out – and for a moment Zeke feared his party might be trapped in the dark shaft. Coop and Shank had laid his fears to rest though when, grunting and groaning, massive biceps flexing, they had managed to pry the doors apart through brute strength alone. After climbing up to the floor above Burke had explained that they would be forced to take the emergency stairs from now on and recommended taking a short rest so that he might tend to Rachel while Eddie doled out the rest of the ammunition. A strange request, coming from a man whom only minutes ago was insisting that they proceed with all due haste but Zeke needed to take only one look at Rachel's pale, damp face to agree that a break would be a splendid idea.

So he now stood in a twisting labyrinth of winding corridors, secluded alcoves and deserted rooms. Overhead the lights flickered on and off in a dizzying display. The sour reek of industrial strength cleansers was nearly overpowering and one had to watch where they set foot for fear of broken shards of glass from office windows and light fixtures.

On the ground beside him, Rachel lay stretched out with Burke squatting beside her, unwrapping the bandage around her leg for a better examination as they spoke in soft voices. Not far away, Eddie sat handing out nine-millimeter clips to Skip, Sam and Kathy while the two officers gave the younger man tips on firing and reloading the weapon that still seemed a puzzle to him even after the episode in the garage. The Rangers formed a tight, protective ring around the group of survivors, watching the empty hallways and occasionally putting their heads together to exchange a few words.

Zeke eyed the men suspiciously, his paranoia like a second being inside his head now. Which one of them was working against him and why? Did it have something to do with this paramilitary team or Burke's odd behavior? Too many questions, not enough answers.

Shank, Shots and Tech returned within a few minutes after announcing that they were going to "site see" – whatever that was supposed to mean, possibly something to do with their deceased comrades though Zeke could not even begin to imagine what. Apparently, the bikers had managed to locate an employee lounge and raid its fridge of a few untouched lunches and several sealed bottles of water. Zeke hadn't realized how hungry he was until Shank raised the subject of food.

The group of survivors was sitting around eating their small meals and quenching their thirst when Burke knelt down beside the lieutenant. Whatever had the doctor all shook up before seemed to have lost its grip on the man now as he was all cool-eyed serenity once again. That his news concerned Rachel's health was a given – Burke rarely spoke to him of any other matter – but with that face of smooth planes and angles Zeke had no idea if the news would be good or bad this time. _Like you have to guess. Face it, you know what he's going to say. _

"Lieutenant Wilcott?" Burke said, continuing after Zeke met his eyes. "I have some troubling news to report." _Surprise, surprise. _ "It seems Major Parker's fracture may be more complicated than first though. I looked under her dressing and the skin around the affected area is starting to blacken ever so slightly. I can't be certain for sure but an educated guess tells me that a bone fragment may have severed tendons – possibly even an artery – and it's causing her internal bleeding now. It doesn't seem too severe at the moment but it will be lethal if she doesn't receiver surgery in the next twenty-four hours." Burke spoke loud enough for the Ranger's ears alone and Zeke was grateful to the man for it.

_Internal bleeding. She'll die without surgery. _The words thundered in his skull. If everything went according to plan then they would be out of Raccoon within an hour tops – but Zeke knew better than to trust his luck in this place. He had zero examples of anything he tried having gone exactly the way he planned it would.

"You're a surgeon, can you operate on her here?" Zeke whispered back, hoping his voice was not as anxious as he felt. Rachel had fought so hard to keep up, to not slow them down. For her to die now…he refused to even consider it.

"No." Burke said with a shake of his head, rubbing at tired red eyes. "I can't be sure any of the instruments here are completely sterile nor am I confident enough in my own abilities to try an operation that complicated – and risky – on my own."

"Shit." Zeke swore, clicking his teeth. There was always _something._ "Is there anything we can do for her in the meantime? There has to be something."

Burke shrugged, directing a glance to where Rachel sat. "Make sure she drinks plenty of water, keeps from overexerting herself…and get her out of here as soon as possible."

Zeke nodded, staring at where Rachel was slumped as well. Everything Burke said was obvious enough but it was still too little. There had to be something more he could do for her – too many times tonight there had been more he could have done, _should _have done, and yet he had lacked the foresight to see it done. Not this time though, not this time.

_I can talk to her, even if it is just a few words of encouragement to keep her spirits up. _Zeke thought as he took a seat beside the major, leaning his back against the wall.

Rachel sat with her head tilted up taking long sips from his canteen. She was as white as fallen snow, coated in a blanket of sweat that gave her a sickly sheen in the light of the hallway. Her sandy hair hung limply about her shoulders, damp with the moisture leaking from her skin. Setting the canteen down she offered Zeke weak smile in greeting.

"Hey," she said, "come to visit the cripple?"

"Nah," Zeke answered, returning her smile, "just a pretty girl."

"Smooth." Rachel chortled, trying to conceal a wince as laughter and failing miserably. Zeke frowned. _Keep her talking, _he told himself, _keep her thinking positive._

"We'll be out of here soon," he said, "we can fly to somewhere nearby – New York maybe – get you patched up at a hospital while the rest of us can rinse off with a hot shower and fill up with some warm chow. In an hour you'll be feeling like yourself again in clean clothes and a warm bed. Sweet deal, huh?"

"Mhmm…can't wait." Rachel said drearily and Zeke felt his concern for the woman grow as her head lolled to one side. She was slipping away from him too fast. Everything was happening too fast.

"Rachel," he said softly, "how do you feel? I mean…how do you _really _feel?"

"Tired." Was her exhausted reply, as she nuzzled her head against Zeke's shoulder. Her eyes fluttered before drawing closed, her breath steady and even.

Zeke looked over at the girl dozing on his shoulder and sighed deeply. After a moment he reached out and gently began smoothing back her wet hair. Somehow he had to keep Rachel alive, just long enough for them to reach the helicopters, but in the pit of his stomach he knew that would be much more difficult than it sounded.

Page Break

Swallowing the rest of the tuna sandwich he had been eating Shank licked his fingers clean and belched heartily. In truth he was eager to be off on a one-way trip to Anywhere Elseville but he didn't see the need to make that journey on an empty stomach. Besides, everyone was sagging in the saddle a bit and Rachel was dinged up pretty bad so maybe taking a breather wasn't such a terrible idea. Speaking of the girl, she seemed to be getting pretty snug with Lieutenant Wilcott.

_Now there's a true player for you,_ Shank thought with a smirk as the pilot rested her head on Zeke's arm and he ran his fingers through her hair. _He's surrounded by bloodsucking demons from beyond the crypt and he's _still _trying to get some! _ Well, maybe that wasn't exactly true – Zeke seemed like the boy-scout type – but it still gave him a good laugh.

With the Rangers watching the hallway ahead, the others had formed a tight circle nearby, eating and drinking and talking softly. Kathy and Sam seemed to be getting pretty snug too, come to think of it – they hardly tried to disguise it when they made eyes at each other or held hands anymore. Cripes, who would have thought this disaster would be such a bonding experience? Well, they were young let them make their own mistakes. Edgar Chaffer knew broads were nothing but trouble – expensive trouble at that.

Eddie caught Shank's eye and nodded. Shank nodded back – he couldn't say why but a mutual respect had begun to develop between the pig and himself – but nevertheless turned on his heel to seek out the two men who sat separated from the larger cluster.

Shots and Tech were crouched about five feet away from the others; Tech drinking from a bottle of water with his good hand while Shots flipped through a leather bound notebook. Squatting next to his companions, Shank unsheathed his Bowie knife and went about picking his fingernails clean. It was a nervous habit but one that he found helped to pass the time.

"What's that?" He asked, nodding to the book in Shots' hands.

"A journal I found in the employee break room," the other Psycho responded without looking up. "It's written by some guy named Donovan Winters. Looks like he worked in neurology here."

"The dipshit say anything interesting?" Tech asked, chugging back his water and proving he could not got more than a sentence without throwing in a curse.

Shots shrugged, flipping another page. "For the most part its just him whining about how everyone he works with is a peabrain when held up against his sparkling example of genius – and he's even less merciful when it comes to describing his ex-wife. For a genius he sure has crappy penmanship though."

Shank chuckled lightly, digging the blade under his index finger. "He mention anything about what a lovely bloodbath his fair city is becoming?"

"Just that he's scared basically." Shots replied and then his eyes nearly leapt from his skull. He traced a finger across several of the handwritten pages once, twice and then a third time, mumbling to himself silently as he re-read each word. "Mother fuck."

"What is it?" Shank asked hurriedly and saw Tech sit up straighter, looking around as if expecting an attack. Shots wasn't known to panic and seeing him so perturbed was, well, _deeply _unnerving. "Damn it, Shots, what is it?"

"Read from here to the end." Shots said thrusting the journal into his face, marking a spot out with one finger. Tech peered over his shoulder as he began to read.

The entry was undated and penned in a sloppy hand: _Things are out of control. The level of infection is rising faster than anyone – maybe even the Inner Circle members themselves – could have anticipated. Not many of us are left now only twenty, and at least ten of them are already symptomatic. All Project personnel too. How did this happen?_

_Burke was the smart one he fled the second Project personnel started coming down with the Tyrant Virus. Personally, I wouldn't go out into the streets with an army at my back but wherever that bastard is it has to be better than here. He ordered us to terminate all current test subjects and dispose of their remains in the basement incinerator but people are still getting sick. Burke, that bastard must have done it…he was a project manager after all. Maybe he thought escaping with all the data for himself would make Umbrella fork out a heavier paycheck. Greedy, greedy bastard, he never knew what the real purpose behind the Raccoon Project was. _

_I can hear some of them banging at my door now – my people, what used to be my people. I wonder who it is. Heartman and Jordan for sure, they were the most far gone the last I checked but it sounds like there's four or five of them at least. _

_Not that any of that matters now. Nothing matters but escape now. I tried to get in touch with White Umbrella Security Forces yesterday but all the phones are out. They'll send a team though – B.O.N.E.S. probably – to clean up this mess but I can't count on them coming here – or taking me to safety if they do. I'm running out of options. _

_I need to get away but I can't leave without the variant sample in the sub-basement. I'm as good dead without it but if I can return with it, deliver it to Jackson myself, maybe Umbrella will overlook my failure here. Maybe. _

_What was the combination to the storage room though? Only Burke and the development staff knew it, not supervisors like myself, but Burke is gone and all the developers are dead now. _

_No matter. I'll figure it out, that bastard must have written it down somewhere. I've got a gun and nothing but time. I just need to get down there and pick up the sample._

_Gregory Burke might be the one to deliver all the Project results but it'll be Donovan Winters who delivers the crown jewel. Serves the bastard right. _

The rest of the pages were blank but Shank wasn't looking at the book anymore. His eyes turned to where Burke said with the others, smiling politely at something Skip was saying. The man looked about as suspicious as a farmer in a corn patch but Winters' diary read like a bad spy novel and Greg Burke seemed to occupy a central role in the drama.

_The Raccoon Project? The Tyrant Virus? The Umbrella Corporation? Jumping holy shit but I really don't like where this is going. _

Umbrella Incorporated, the name itself was power. The company was every entrepreneurs dream come to life, the success story of the century. Almost overnight the Umbrella Corporation had evolved from a fairly small, homegrown operation to the worldwide leader in pharmaceuticals and bio-technology almost overnight. The company had officers all over the globe and the influence it wielded could rival that of the White House – or so Shank had heard. It was said that some politicians had their careers built up or torn down based on their dealings with Umbrella Inc.

"Tyrant Virus?" Tech said incredulously and Shank was relieved to see that his friend had the sense to keep his voice down. "Shit, it sounds like he's talking about Raccoon Syndrome…the zombie virus. What the hell is _White _Umbrella? He's talking about the drug company right?"

"I've never heard of them either," Shots said, tucking Winters' journal away into the rucksack before hoisting it back over his shoulders, "but the way he was going on about it, it almost sounds like this city was some kind of experiment. They called it the 'Raccoon Project' for Godsake."

Shank shook his head but kept a wary eye on Burke. He doubted the man would try anything cute in front of so many armed people but…well, he had seen greater acts of stupidity than that in his life. "An experiment like what?" He asked. "Cooking up a virus that turns people into flesh eating monsters and release it in a small city for shits and giggles? Think about everything they'd have to lose if word got out!"

"Think about everything they'd have to _gain _if it didn't." Shots replied, spreading his hands. "Think about it, you engineer a viral strain that doesn't kill its host but mutates them, changes them into a killing machine – and one that can stand up to a shitload of bullets. It's the _perfect _soldier: no sense of morality, no beliefs, no way to question orders – they just kill. You'd have every nation on the _planet _ready to buy, you'd be taking in dough hand over fist!"

"Then why bother with an…experiment…like this at all?" Tech said, waving a hand in a vague gesture. "Why not just start selling the shit to the highest bidder?"

"Every product needs a test run," Shots shrugged dismissively, "cars, computers – even biological weapons. You need to see how well your product performs under certain conditions and then work out the kinks accordingly. The things we've seen tonight might be the perfect soldiers physically and emotionally but they're still just animals, there's no way to control them and a soldier you can't order around is totally useless. Maybe this was just a test run…to see how things would go." Shots turned his mouth up at the last as if he might like to spit.

"I see what you mean." Shank said and felt his own mouth twist into a sneer. He heard about cases of big business gone bad before but pollution and creative bookkeeping didn't quite compare to turning a city of people into the living dead just to see how long it would take everyone to tear each other apart. "Do you really think _Burke_ could be involved though? I mean, sure, the dude is a little flaky but he's just a pencil neck dweeb right? Hardly looks like a mass murderer."

Shots shrugged again, rising to his feet with Tech. "My pops had a saying that 'If it's not in writing then it's just bullshit,' well, his name is down in writing. Besides, a lot of Nazis looked like pencil-necked dweebs too." He sighed. "Listen, I say we should tell the army guys about Donovan's journal before we go and strong arm Burke though I _do _plan on having a word or two with him."

"Semper fi to that." Shank grunted. If the doc had anything to do with something that had cost three of his buddies their lives then he planned on having a word or two with the man himself – in private.

Shank opened his mouth to say as much then frowned in puzzlement. A strange sound filtered into his ears, the rapid _clackclackclack_ of something traveling across the tile floor. Turning around, towards the source of the noise, Shank felt his heart climb into his throat at the sight of the black metal sphere skipping across the ground towards where the other survivors were now standing, coming to an abrupt halt at Kathryn Ward's foot.

"Grenade!" Shots called before Shank had a chance, pushing forward to warn the others. At the sound of the biker's urgent cry, Sam threw himself at the female officer. The others jumped at the word, leaping for safety, stun written across their faces.

Shank prepared himself to do the same but then white hot light flashed before his eyes and he could no longer see which direction to jump in. It hardly seemed to matter though as intense heat prickled his skin and shards of burning metal slashed at his face and opened up the old wound on his forearm. He had been too slow and now he would die. The concussion of the blast lifted the Psycho and sent him crashing into something tall and incredibly solid.

Blinded by the blast, deafened by the explosion, Shank slipped away into unconsciousness, wondering what he had done to deserve such a very, very bad day.

Author's Note: Here's the new chapter, my Readers. Please read and review when you get a chance, as always, I crave your feedback – positive or negative. Tell me something. I know, it's a bit of a cliffhanger but hopefully it will lead well into the next chapter which is the shootout at the O.K. Corral…well, not really but you get the idea. Anyways, stay tuned for another update in a week or two. Thank you for reading and enjoy!


	25. Snake In The Grass

**Chapter 24: Snake In The Grass**

October 2, 1998

7:05 PM

Saint Jude's Hospital, 5th Floor

Smoke and dust clouded Zeke's vision, stung his eyes and choked the breath from his lungs. Everything spun in a dizzying pattern as he coughed and tried in vain to wave away the gray haze. _What happened? Who dropped the fucking mortar on us? _Then he remembered hearing someone shout about a grenade and everything made a little more sense.

Groans and hacking coughs reached the lieutenant's ears as he tried to climb to his feet. A hissing crack sent Zeke back to the ground as bullets zipped past overhead, riddling the wall behind him. Cursing, the lieutenant scrambled on hands and knees to the opposite wall, putting an office block between himself and the unseen attackers. There was no time to worry about who was dead and injured, it was time to circle the wagons and hold the fort.

"Sound off!" Zeke shouted above the chatter of automatic fire pounding into the wall at his back. The smoke began to thin enough for him to make out the vague silhouettes of other people, some crouching nearby others lying scattered across the tile floor like a child's dolls. "Sound off!"

"Wesley here!" The Brit gasped, hacking and wheezing somewhere to Zeke's right.

"Cooper here, boss!" Joe shouted from further behind Wes.

Scott and Ryan called out a moment later as well, coughing and sounding rattled but at least they were close by. No one else raised their voices but Zeke could still hear the groans of the injured – maybe there were more lives he could save. _I was careless, I should have been watching the other way. Rachel. Rachel's out there now, fragile, hurt, I have to get to her. How many others are out there – hurt or dead – because I was so careless?_

Finally the clouds of dust and smoke weakened enough for the lieutenant to see the other Rangers – Scott and Ryan ahead of him, Wes and Coop a few feet behind. All four men were covered in small cuts and bruises but their eyes were sharp and aware, crouching low as they held their weapons ready. They were his men – and one of them was a traitor. _No time to think about that now. We have to get to the wounded, have to get to Rachel. _

"I don't know about you blokes but I'm out of bloody ammo." Wesley said looking more frustrated than frightened.

"Me too." Scott said, ducking back from the corner as a round of gunfire blew chunks of plaster up into his face.

Zeke checked the magazine in his rifle – empty. _Perfect, _he thought with a scowl. He still had a full pistol and three extra clips but at this range he might as well have been armed with a tennis racket.

Then the image of Haag's bulging rucksack around Shots' shoulders flared in his mind and Zeke felt his hope rekindled. He looked around and for the biker and found him lying across the hall from their current position. Most of Shots' clothing had been burned away in the explosion; his exposed skin angry red or deep black from a multitude of burns and blood coated the man's face like a crimson mask. A gruesome sight and Zeke felt a stab of guilt for getting the man killed but he had living bodies to worry about now and the man still had Haag's pack on his shoulders.

"Ryan, cover the left side; Coop you've got the right!" The position they were forced to defend was not a good one, open on both sides but at least their assailants options of approach were fairly limited. They would be unable to flank and that gave Zeke an advantage to work with. "Scott, Wes, see if you can gather in any of the wounded. I'm going to try and get us some more bullets. Cover me!"

Drawing his Colt, Zeke jumped out into the hallway. Ryan swung around the corner, firing his rifle as fast as he could work the bolt, the noise of Cooper's SAW picking up at his back. Zeke landed on his stomach with a grunt, the hiss and pop of rounds passing through the air above him making the lieutenant cringe.

Zeke fired thrice into the smoky haze at the other end of the hall, aiming for muzzle flashes, and was rewarded with a startled curse. Maybe pistols weren't so useless at this distance after all, he thought, keeping his eyes locked on the bloody mess that was Shots as he crawled forward.

"Unnhg. H..he…help." The biker groaned weakly as Zeke unstrapped the rucksack from his back. The lieutenant's eyes widened with surprise, he had been sure the man was dead. Without another thought he grabbed Shots by the wrist and pulled him hastily back behind the wall where his men were taking cover.

Leaning back against the cool concrete, Zeke took a second to pray that the pack contained Haag's ammunition and not his rations before tearing open the flaps, the roar of gunfire near deafening now. He sighed with relief when he saw the stacks of clips and hand grenades it held, more than Haag himself should have been carrying but that hardly mattered to the lieutenant now. _Don't look a gift horse in the mouth. _

"The others?" Zeke asked Wesley, shouting over the din of the firefight as he slid three M-4 clips and a grenade to his friend. Wesley popped in a fresh magazine before pointing behind him to his right.

Lying behind the cover of the office block were the forms of Skip Francis, Greg Burke and Officer Eddie Gabbor. Skip and Burke were marred by purple bruises, bright red burn marks and small lacerations but they were both alive, groaning as they tried to reach their knees. Eddie was breathing too though obviously unconscious. His eyes shut tight the rookie lay on his side, shotgun still clenched in one hand, a thick gash across his forehead leaking rivulets of blood down the side of his face.

"Is this it?" Zeke asked, reloading his own weapon. "What about Rachel? Did you see her?"

"No." Wesley said, flinching as another volley of gunfire shook the office block they crouched behind, shards of glass raining down on them as the windows exploded.

"Damn it." Zeke seethed between clenched teeth as the Brit rose to his feet and began firing over Coop's head. Rachel was still out there, wounded and fragile, as breakable as a crystal figurine. Shots was certainly dying and maybe Eddie too. The rest were missing. He was in command. They were all his responsibilities. They had trusted him to get them out safely.

"Lieutenant!" Scott called from eight or nine feet behind Zeke, his words nearly swallowed in the ceaseless bursts of gunfire. "Lieutenant, I – we need your help over here!"

"Conserve your ammo!" Zeke ordered before taking off to where Scott knelt by two other figures in the foggy corridor where another office block began. Bullets whizzed by overhead but the voice of his conscience was too loud for Zeke to hear them. _My command. My responsibility. _

Page Break ----------

"Keep your head down." The Ranger – Scott Owens – said and Kathy obeyed, pressing her face into the material of Sam's vest, not caring that there was blood on it. Her tears had washed some of it away in any case.

When the grenade had landed at her feet Sam had jumped on her, pushing her away, shielding her with his own body. What seemed like a second later the grenade had detonated, sending them both sailing across the hall.

Now, Sam rested with his back to the door of an office in the center of the corridor, his deathly white features mercifully cloaked by the sooty tendrils of smoke billowing about them both. He breathed in ragged, irregular gasps, coughing lightly as the dust and ash entered his lungs. Blood formed an ever expanding pool beneath his left leg – what was left of it anyway. It had been severed at the knee when the blast hit.

"I…I promised." He muttered, sounding half-asleep and Kathryn wished he would stop talking. "I promised…to keep you safe."

"Please, Sam, be quiet. Don't say anymore." She cried into his chest, unable to meet his glassy eyes. The _fool, _the stone-brained fool! How could he be so selfish, throwing his life way for hers? She had never asked him to promise _anything_. Why did he have to do it? _He's dying and there's nothing I can do to save him. _

Kathy could hear approaching boot steps but she didn't look up, only gripped Sam's vest harder, weeping till her eyes hurt. Zeke's voice spoke beside her. "Scott what is…oh, Christ." That was enough to tell her he had seen Sam's leg.

"Scott," Zeke said after a moment, "get back with the others and lay cover. Save your shots though, make sure you hit what you aim at. I'll…I'll handle things here." The other Ranger muttered an affirmative before moving off.

Kathy raised her head just enough to see Zeke come around and study Sam's leg with a grim expression, his face nearly as pale as the man bleeding to death. "Hang on, Sam," the lieutenant said, clapping the other man on the shoulder, "I'm going to get you out of here."

Kathryn studied the man harder, a little surprised. The way Sam acted around the soldier one would have thought he liked to tear the wings of insects. He hardly looked like some kind of sado-masochist though, Zeke Wilcott was just another man trying to survive and do his job to the best of his ability at the same time.

Sam shook his head as if dismissing the possibility and Kathryn whimpered. The man that had been her friend – her partner – for so many years, the man she had come to feel for so deeply this night was drifting away from here.

"The paramilitary team?" Sam said in a rush and Zeke nodded meekly, looking torn as he gazed at the severed appendage.

"That's my guess."

"The others?" Sam half-closed his eyes and Kathryn gripped his chest harder, oblivious to the crack of automatic weapons and shouted voices, even as plaster fell onto her shoulders.

"Burke and Skip are alright, my guys too." Zeke answered. "I don't know where Shank and Tech are but I'll find them if I can. We…we might lose Shots – and Eddie."

Kathy choked back another sob. She liked Eddie Gabbor – she liked _all _the newbies that came into the station but she couldn't grieve for him yet. Sam was all that mattered now besides, the lieutenant had said there might be a chance that Eddie would survive.

"Look, Sam," Zeke said slowly, his tone unnaturally soft. "I-I'm sorry."

"Nah," Sam said, a tiny smile spreading his lips, "I'm the one…who should be…sorry. I was an asshole. You're…an all right guy, Wilcott. Take care of…Kathy for me."

"I will." He nodded.

"Sam?" Kathy asked, unable to think of a time she had sounded more hollow and broken, taking the young man's cold cheeks in her hands. He couldn't leave her, not yet, not like this.

He turned that weak smile towards her, his lips trembling as if it took all his remaining strength to keep that grin in place. "Sorry to die on the first date like this." He laughed lightly and sighed. "I love you…Kathy." Sam's chest fell and did not rise again.

A broken, tormented sob rocked Kathryn's body. New tears streaming down her hot cheeks, she cradled Sam's head to her breast and smoothed his hair. She couldn't speak, couldn't think, all she could do was hold him and weep. She wept for the friend she had lost, for the man she had loved. He was gone now, never to know what her heart held for him.

A warm, strong hand touched her shoulder lightly and she looked up through the mist of tears to see Zeke staring back at her. She had never seen a man look so determined.

"I'm going to get us out of here." He told her firmly, looking past her now. "I've got an idea.

Kathryn frowned at the Ranger. _She _didn't see any way out of this quagmire that was for certain. Then again, Zeke had gotten them out of some tight spots before but – she couldn't help but wonder what his plans had to do with the fire extinguishers strapped to the wall behind her that he was staring at so intently.

Page Break ---------

Yet again, Rico Da Silva found himself feeling demoralized and frustrated. Strangely enough, Smith was not the cause of his negative feelings this time.

When he had tossed the frag from around the corner he had expected the group of survivors – so much for Waters' computer projections – to die like good boys and girls. Unfortunately it seemed he had thrown the grenade a second or two too early because they had all had ample time – well, time enough anyway – to get behind cover. And now they were firing back at him and his men. Rico was just about to order Foller and Petrovsky to send out a frag each when panicked cries reached his hearing above the barks of automatic weapons fire.

"I'm out!" One voice cried in a British accent.

"Fuck, me too!" Another called and then another and another: all reporting that they were out of ammo. The chatter of assault rifles from the other end of the hall suddenly fell silent.

_So much for elite government troops, _Rico thought contemptuously with a small smirk, feeling better than he had all night. _Don't even know to keep their voices down when the enemy is close by…let alone shooting at them. _Not all that surprising though really. Rico had always suspected that, on the whole, Americans were quite stupid.

"Advance." Rico said, _he _remembered to keep his voice low, to the four men by the wall across from his position.

"No!" Smith whispered harshly at his side and the four B.O.N.E.S. troopers stopped dead at his word. Rico sneered behind his mask. "It's a trap. They _want _us to leave our cover."

Rico turned his sneer on Smith not caring that the man couldn't see it. He was tired of the supervisor's needless caution, his intolerable indecisiveness. The brass had sent him along to evaluate the performance of Rico's mission, not hinder it.

"We're moving on them." Rico told the man matter of factly. "You can stay here and guard the sample if you want, Smith."

A dangerous thing to say to any supervisor, "Smith" most of all, but it had felt good. Rico was sick of holding of holding back while the man's incompetence compromised the integrity of his mission. It had felt good – but why did he get the feeling that Smith was smiling again?

"As you command, major." Smith said. Oh yes, he was smiling again but why?

_No time for that now, _Rico thought, giving the signal to advance. He stepped around the corner with Foller and Murphy at his side. Petrovsky and Sven would take the right side while they took the left. He'd deal with Smith later, for now he had some pests to deal with first.

Page Break ----------

With Ryan on the left side and Wes on the right, each man gripping a dull red fire extinguisher in his hands, all there was left to do was wait. Zeke knew his plan was risky – it depended wholly on the other commander's gullibility – but it was the only one he had been able to come up with in a clinch. It might very well be Rachel's only chance as well.

He had spotted her while moving towards where Sam and Kathy had been. The explosion had thrown her forward and she now lay in an alcove a great distance up the hall. The trouble was Rachel lay closer to the men shooting at them than to him. From the distance he couldn't tell if she was alive or dead – she wasn't moving but that didn't mean she wasn't breathing – but it hardly mattered now. He had already left too many of his people behind already.

"Looks like they took the bait, boss." Ryan said peeking around the corner and Zeke could hardly believe his luck. It would come in small doses he reminded himself. "I've got three coming up on this side."

"I've got a pair of the buggers coming up on this side." Wesley whispered from his corner. "Gas masks and black clothing just like Shots said."

Zeke nodded, the paramilitary unit then. "Get ready to roll those canisters out when I give the order." He whispered back and his men tensed.

Zeke started to count to ten in his head, figuring it would take the troopers that long to get close enough. Across from him, huddled with Kathy, were Burke and Skip. Both men were wild-eyed and looked ready to bolt. Burke did anyway – Skip just looked ready to curl up into the fetal position. _Nine…ten._

"Now!" Zeke ordered but his words were swallowed up by a frightened cry. At first he thought it was Skip but then turned to see Burke leap to his feet, face painted with horror, and dart around the corner. Straight into the line of fire. "Burke! Get back here!"

"Don't shoot!" The physician yelled, throwing his hands up. "I'm with Umbrella, I was manager for this area of the Raccoon Project!"

Too shocked for words, Zeke could only look on dumbly and wonder what the doctor was babbling about when Shank and Tech seemed to come out of nowhere. Racing through the gray fog, each man looked like a train wreck – covered in bloody gashes and dark burns – but their eyes were aflame with a passionate hatred. A hatred that seemed to be directed at Greg Burke.

"Fucking snake in the grass!" Shank bellowed as he and Tech threw themselves towards the man.

Burke cried out in pain and surprise as the two men tackled him to the ground beneath a hail of gunfire. The three men rolled to where Zeke crouched, an order-less tangle of arms and legs. When the pile of bodies came to a halt, Shank sat on Burke's chest and with a feral roar slugged the doctor across the face. There was a sickening crack as Burke's nose gave way and he fell limp.

Zeke stared at the men, positively dumbfounded by the events of the last five seconds and then remembered where he was. "Now!" He shouted and Wes and Ryan wasted hardly a second in pushing the extinguishers down the hall towards the approaching gunmen.

Tapping Ryan on the shoulder, the sharpshooter rolled out into the hallway as planned with Zeke at his back. Head down, Zeke didn't spare a glance for his attackers but kept his eyes fixed on Rachel's helpless figure, feeling his hope rise as he saw her chest do the same.

Beside him Ryan dropped to the ground, his rifle making its report almost instantly, synchronized with the blast of an M-4 from the other side of the hall. There was an audible pop as the two rounds punctured the steel casings of the extinguishers. The pop turned into a violent, hissing explosion as the compressed gas was released in an eruption of noxious white clouds.

Zeke couldn't see the troopers as he darted across the hallway, sliding the last few feet to where Rachel lay, but his ears told him the men were enveloped in the burning mist of the CO2. Screams of outrage and agony filled the hallway followed by the sound of boots scampering backwards over the tiled floor. Somewhere in that choking fog a voice shouted with a Latin accent. "Fall back! Fall back, damn it!"

Dimly aware that his plan had succeeded, Zeke wrapped his arms around Rachel, pulling her into his lap. She didn't look any worse for the wear than normal – just unconscious with a bluish welt forming on her forehead. She was breathing and had a pulse, if a weak one but she was alive and Zeke had her. He had her and would get her out of this nightmare at all costs. Even if the price was his own life.

Page Break ----------

Watching Rico and the fools he called soldiers stagger around screaming and flailing their limbs was comical enough but Smith couldn't bring himself to laugh. Tightening his hand around the sample case, he felt like screaming himself. His mole was out there and those B.O.N.E.S. idiots were shooting at anything that moved – well, _had _been at least. Granted, his mole was shooting back but that was integral to maintaining his cover. Besides, if he happened to eliminate Rico Da Silva in the process of maintaining his cover Smith would consider it a fair trade.

Rico and his buffoons were wasting time though. There was a mole to be collected, one with data valuable to the Raccoon Project, and perhaps the fellow who had come out shouting that he was a project manager. If his identity could be confirmed of course. In all this chaos though – Smith winced. Accomplishing those tasks seemed akin to climbing a mountain naked now.

_You'll never get him out of there now, not without taking a bullet to the head or something equally unpleasant. _Smith sighed, in truth he did not fear being shot – he was fairly certain he could kill all those Rico's goon squad had failed to but "fairly" certain still left a margin for error. _I need leverage now or we'll never reach the AMRS intact. _It was regrettable that he required Rico and the rest of his men to survive this engagement but they still had a role to play: A small but important one.

Rico and his thugs were retreating now, diving for cover behind an alcove down the way. Smith sighed again. _If you want something done right do it yourself. _An old adage but one he knew to be wholly true.

Setting the sample case down behind the wall where he crouched, Smith proceeded to add his rifle and rucksack to the pile as well. He would need to be able to move fast and freely and the extra gear would only encumber him. Besides, firearms had lost their flare for him since the…incident.

Flattening himself against the wall, Smith peered around the corner. His keen eyes cut through the clouds of white gas as if they were not there at all and…zoomed in…on the spot where he had seen the blonde girl go down after Rico threw the grenade. Even after the incident Smith wasn't sure how he managed the zooming technique with his eyes – he just chalked it up to instinct.

He caught sight of the girl quickly, being dragged out of the alcove by a rugged-looking fellow in army fatigues while another, similarly dressed man covered them with a bolt-action rifle. Only two of them stood between him and the girl. Smith smiled to himself.

Drawing in a deep breath, Smith lowered his head and raced down the hallway, arms pumping at his sides. The clouds of gas were beginning to thin now but there should still be enough to cover his advance – he doubted their eyes were as sharp as his. He charged forward, the corridor blurring at the edges of his vision, growing close enough to smell the sweat and blood on the trio. Close enough to smell the fear radiating out of the two men in waves. Smith's grin widened, he was a predator and they had stumbled into his jungle.

The fellow with the bolt-action rifle looked quite shocked as Smith emerged from the mist, no doubt wondering how he failed to notice him earlier. The soldier rose to his feet quickly, the rifle useless at such close range he struck out with the stock but Smith wrapped both hands around the weapon as it came down, halting the blow. Holding the rifle with one hand, he balled the other into a fist and punched the soldier in the solar plexus with enough force to send him crashing into the wall five feet across the hall. Eyes closed, he sunk to the ground limply. Smith's newfound strength rarely surprised him anymore.

The sound of boots shifting behind him caused Smith to whirl just in time to see the other Ranger rising to his feet, bringing his weapon to bear. Without losing a beat, Smith back-flipped into the air as the rifle made its report, a trio of rounds slapping into the wall behind him. The Ranger's mouth hung agape as Smith's feet found the floor but he had no time to spare reveling in the other man's surprise. Springing off the wall, beside the stunned soldier, Smith drove his elbow hard into the side of the man's head, sending him sprawling.

Two more of the soldier's comrades sprang around the corner – a black man and a fellow with a mustache – raising their firearms but Smith was already moving again, hefting the girl over his shoulders and tearing away back up the hall. Bullets ate up the ground at his feet but Smith knew not a one would find him He would have appeared like an insubstantial blur to them. His own speed did catch him off guard from time to time: the whole episode of knocking out the two men and grabbing the unconscious girl had taken less than ten seconds.

Rounding the corner, Smith saw that Rico and the other four apes had regrouped. Ignoring their startled postures at finding him holding a captive, he snatched up the sample case and rucksack roughly. The AK could be left behind.

"Blow the charges now!" Smith demanded angrily – and perhaps a bit too loudly. "We're moving to the AMRS!"

Page Break ----------

"What happened?" Zeke groaned, struggling to regain his feet and wondering where the freight train that had run him down had come from. All he could remember was a blur, pain and then darkness. Strong hands pulled the lieutenant to his feet and Wesley's face came into view, looking grim as death.

"We have to get out of here." The Brit said in a rush. "I heard one of those buggers yell about setting off charges. They must have rigged this place to blow."

_Charges? God, the surprises never end around here. Who the hell hit me? _Zeke shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs that had settled in his skull. No time to think about that now.

"Alright," he said groggily, managing to stand on his own, "get the others together. I'll carry Rach – " memory flared in the lieutenant's mind and panic seized his heart. He had been holding Rachel when that…_blur_…knocked him into next week. "Rachel! Where's Rachel?"

"One of those paramilitary guys grabbed her." Pierce said, limping over holding his stomach with one hand. "Guy moved like a whirlwind."

"N-no." Zeke shook his head, vehemently refusing the possibility that she had been snatched out from under his nose. He hadn't come this far just to lose the girl now. "Why the hell would they take her – no, nevermind. We have to get her back, which way did they take her?"

Zeke took a step forward but Wesley shoved him back roughly, his face creased with frustration. "Are your bloody ears clogged? I said they're going to blow this place. We have to get out of here _now_!"

"Not without Rachel!" Zeke protested, writhing in Wes' grip but his friend held him fast. Rage boiled in the lieutenant, he wanted to lash out at Wesley – at _anyone _– why were they trying to hold him back? Didn't they see she needed help? _He _had to find her, he was supposed to be protecting her.

"We're no good to her if we're still in the hospital when it goes up like a bloody tinderbox!" Wesley shouted and then his tone and face quickly smoothed. "We'll find her, Zeke. Shank told me something…rather interesting and if anyone knows where those bastards are taking Rachel I have a feeling it's Burke."

Burke. Burke who had been acting so strange earlier, Burke who had jumped into the middle of a firefight screaming that he was with Umbrella. What the corporation had to do with the events in Raccoon City, Zeke couldn't say but the troopers hadn't shot the man dead on sight. Did that mean they were from Umbrella too? A far fetched idea perhaps but logical in a way.

Zeke turned his head to where the rest of the survivors stood. Skip and Kathryn were helping a now conscious Eddie Gabbor back to his feet. Blood dribbled down the side of the rookie's head but he appeared healthy and lucid otherwise; grumbling about his luck. Shank and Tech held Burke by either arm, the doctor gripping his bloody nose in one hand and looking a great deal like a caged rabbit – desperately searching for a direction to scurry away in but finding only bars wherever he turned. Shots lay near Shank's feet, the Kevlar helmet pulled down over his face. With a defeated sigh, Kathy reached down and dropped her jacket over Sam Brocket's lifeless form.

_Two more deaths. Two more deaths because I was so damn careless. _

"All clear, boss." Coop said, jogging back with Scott from up the hall. "Those guys turned tail pretty fast and – if I can speak freely for a second, sir – I think we should follow their example before this place turns into the world's largest firecracker."

Zeke nodded and gave the order to move out, the others racing to the emergency exit while the bikers dragged a sobbing Greg Burke along. How the man could know where the paramilitary team was going, Zeke had no idea but Wesley had sounded quite convinced and in spite of everything, he still trusted Wes. All he knew was that if Burke did have information that could help return Rachel to him then the man would be made to give it up – or Zeke would give him a mouth where his nose used to be. Lieutenant Wilcott's patience was at its end and it was time for some answers.

_Just hold on, Rachel, _he pleaded silently as he tore down the stairs with his team ahead of him. _I'm on my way, just hold on. Just hold on a little longer. _Zeke hoped that, somehow, she was listening.

Author's Note: Here's the new chapter my Readers. Please read and review, I crave your feedback, good or bad, as always. I hope you enjoy and stay tuned for another update within a week or two. Enjoy!


	26. A Time For Answers

**Chapter 25: A Time For Answers**

October 2, 1998

8:00 PM

Saint Jude's Hospital, Parking Lot

Saint Jude's went up like a matchstick only moments after the group bolted through the front doors, the resulting shockwave throwing the small group to the asphalt. Zeke threw his arms over his head as he felt the flames lick at his skin, glass and smoldering chunks of metal raining down on him from above as the earth trembled below. The roar of the explosion seemed to last an eternity but gradually the shower of debris ceased, the heat receded and was replaced by the cool October air and the ground stopped its violent roiling.

Rolling slowly onto his back, the Ranger gazed up at what was left of the hospital. Only the bare bones of the structure remained, blackened and smoking as the inferno continued to feed off the innards of the building. The whole sky was alight with an eerie orange-yellow glow the building that had once been Saint Jude's Hospital was now a torch burning against the blackness of the night. And a definite signal for any of Raccoon's creepy crawlies as to where they could find a warm meal.

Coughing and spluttering, the others rose up beside Lieutenant Wilcott, staring at the flaming wreckage with a mixture of relief and fright etched into their faces. If they had been three seconds slower, if he had argued with Wesley a moment longer – the sound of running footsteps cut off Zeke's train of thought. Turning, he saw Burke charging away across the parking lot, glancing back at the ruins of Saint Jude's with an expression of sheer terror. Zeke scowled as he gave chase, swearing he'd bring the man down hard for making him have to run.

It didn't take long for him to catch up to the fleeing doctor; Burke was not in poor shape but he couldn't match the strides of an Army Ranger. The physician cried out as Zeke grabbed hold of his shoulders and swung him back roughly, Burke's head cracking against the pavement. Before he could stop himself, Zeke was drawing his pistol and wedging the barrel beneath Burke's chin. All he could think of was Rachel, her pale, bruised face flashing over and over through his mind's eye. She was hurt – dying – and now strangers held her hostage, men who had tried to kill him. Zeke was tired of all the confusion, of having to ask questions, it was a time for answers now.

The lieutenant had once compared Gregory Burke to a mountain: solid, immoveable. That mountain certainly seemed to have crumbled to dust now, with Zeke holding him down and a gun to his head. Burke seemed more like a lab rat now: confused, frightened and desperately trying to find a way out of the maze it had stumbled into.

"Start talking, Burke!" Zeke snarled atop the pinned man, dimly aware that the others had encircled him now. "You know who those guys that ambushed us were, didn't you? You mentioned Umbrella. What did they have to do with this? _Answer me!_"

Some courage must have still remained in the man though as he fixed the Ranger with a defiant stare. "I'm not telling you a _thing_, lieutenant!" He spat. "You won't kill me."

"No?" Zeke asked and felt ashamed when he realized the man was right. Even after everything he had been through – even after Burke's betrayal – he still couldn't bring himself to harm a defenseless, middle-aged doctor…even if he did know where Rachel was being taken. Ezekiel Wilcott was no murderer. _Of course, Burke doesn't know that. _

"No, I won't kill you, Burke," Zeke said, making his voice ice, his eyes like winter's heart, "but I'll make you wish you were dead. Every time I ask you a question and you don't give me an answer I'll put a bullet somewhere that will _really _sting. I've got nine rounds to a clip and, trust me, there are _plenty _of spots on the human body that hurt like a bitch when a round of molten lead gets pushed through them."

Burke must have seen the frost in Zeke's eyes, felt the chill in his tone because he swallowed deep and lowered his eyes. Beads of sweat broke out along his wrinkled forehead, the silvery light of the moon bringing out the doctor's suddenly pale complexion. Still a shred of defiance remained in him though.

"I'm not afraid of you," he fired back, his shaky tone belying his words. "You're an American soldier, there's rules you and your men have to follow. You _can't _hurt me, lieutenant."

_Smug bastard_, Zeke thought, looking up at those surrounding him. Their faces were all dirty and dark, their eyes filled with accusation and betrayal as they stared down at Burke. Even young Skip looked at the man as if he would like to be the one pressing the gun to his chin. It was time to up the psychological warfare, Burke would find no mercy among this bunch.

"You're forgetting something, Burke," Zeke said, his voice like tempered iron, "we've been written off back home. You heard Scott say so back in the van. That means we've got nothing left to lose and, besides, who says we ever met a Greg Burke anyways? Do any of you boys remember running into a Greg Burke here?"

"Never heard of him." Cooper said almost as coldly as Zeke.

"Greg who?" Wesley asked, a small smile creeping across his face.

"No, sir." Scott said, sounding nervous but managing to keep his voice steady. "Never heard of the guy."

Ryan simply shook his head; face a blank slate. Somehow that expression of casual indifference seemed to scare Burke the worst. He whimpered and began to cry openly.

"Time is wasting, Burke!" Zeke said, pulling the hammer back on the .45. The man's display was pathetic but the lieutenant's disgusting lasted only a moment before concern for Rachel pushed it aside. She was all that meant anything now. He would die to get her back. He pressed the gun to Burke's leg. "The first round is going through your knee, Doc! Tell me what Umbrella has to do with this! Stop whining and answer me! I swear I'll keep shooting parts off until I run out of bullets, Burke, and then I'll hand you over to Shank. The way I understand it, he'd like a word with you."

"You're responsible for getting four of my pals killed." The biker said, his face as hard and frigid as Ryan's. "As a doctor you should know that there are seven natural openings in the human body. Well, Doc, if you don't tell the L.T. what he wants to know then I'll make sure to carve you an _eighth." _

Burke looked from the stone of Shank's face to the fire in Zeke's eyes and back again. He was panting hard, sweating profusely, the last of his resolve being dissolved by fear of the consequences for remaining silent. With a ragged, defeated wail Burke began to talk, words spilling out of him in a rush between sobs.

"Umbrella engineered the whole thing!" He screamed, eyes closed with tears streaming down his face. "It was all an experiment…w-we called it the R-Raccoon Project. M-myself and a f-few others w-were supposed to monitor the outbreak a-and collect d-data on the carriers. P-please, I didn't know it was going to be like this! I didn't _know_!"

"What do you mean Umbrella engineered the whole thing?" Zeke asked, quirking an eyebrow and then realization hit and his heart skipped a beat. "Are you saying they _designed _the Raccoon Syndrome and released it?"

"N-no," Burke stammered still weeping, "the release was accidental – I-I think – but t-the Raccoon Syndrome…it's really c-called the T-T-Tyrant Virus!" The last was delivered in a huff as if it required a great deal of strength for Burke to relinquish such information. "It's a bio-weapon. A-all the creatures you've seen tonight a-are products of it. Th-the zombies too. Umbrella owns this city though s-so when t-the spill happened they decided t-to turn it into an opportunity."

"He's nuts, lieutenant," Eddie broke in angrily. "Umbrella is the King _and _Crown Prince of the business world. What do they gain through mass murder? If you want to boost sales you don't kill a hundred thousand innocent people."

Burke laughed, the hysterical whooping cackle of a madman. "You're wrong, Officer Gabbor, death is a very profitable business. The T-virus has the capacity to regenerate dead cells, it could make a man virtually immortal if it was not so unstable."

_Christ, _Zeke thought unable to speak, _if their using it as a biological weapon then that means…_"Super soldiers." He mused softly and Burke nodded.

"That's the aim, yes," the doctor replied his eyes darting about frantically as the Ranger pinned him down. "Just think about how much the government – any government – would be willing to pay for something that made their armed forces almost invincible. The whole company doesn't even know about the existence of the Tyrant Project, only White Umbrella members. Now, please let me up. We have to get out of here before those _things _show up."

Zeke ignored the man, allowing his words to fully sink in. The most powerful corporation in perhaps the entire history of the world was manufacturing biological weapons through some secret sect within their own corporate body. Not just any biological weapon though but one that turned every living organism it touched into a bloodthirsty killing machine. Lieutenant Wilcott had heard the term corporate malfeasance before but if what Burke said was true then malfeasance didn't even begin to touch the surface of what Umbrella had done. They had released their deadly concoction on American citizens just to see how long it would take their monsters to tear everyone to ribbons. _Evil _barely touched the surface of their actions.

"Jesus." Kathy and Skip breathed in unison, but Zeke doubted Jesus had anything to do with Raccoon City anymore.

"The paramilitary team," Zeke said, snapping back to the present, "who are they? Did Umbrella send them?"

Again, Burke hesitated before answering. Torn between his loyalty to the company and his desire not to take a bullet in the knee no doubt. Sniffling, Burke made the right choice and nodded his head. Zeke idly wondered what the punishment for revealing Umbrella's secrets was within the corporation. Something horrible, certainly, if the man was still able to resist with a gun to his leg and a furious Ranger staring at him with murder in his eyes.

"Yes," Burke answered, his sobs choking his voice, his broken nose making him sound nasal and stuffed up. "Umbrella sent them. They're the Bio-Ordinance Neutralization and Elimination Squad – a B.O.N.E.S. team – special forces. Umbrella uses them as cleaners and security mostly. Please, I've told you all I know. We have to go before – "

"Where are they taking Rachel? Why did they destroy the hospital?" _Cleaners? Does that mean there have been more accidents, more spills of this…Tyrant Virus? _Zeke didn't even want to contemplate the possibility. Just knowing that such a thing existed was too much.

"W-we were working on…on a different strain of the T-virus in the sub-basement," Burke explained, nervously chewing his lower lip until blood glistened on it in the light of the flames. "Umbrella must have ordered them to destroy all traces of the research – maybe even the sample itself."

"And Rachel?" Wesley asked, his eyes shimmering like coals as the firelight danced across his face.

"I-I don't know where they're taking the girl." Zeke pressed the pistol deeper into Burke's knee and the man shrieked his horror, bursting into tears again. Then, miraculously, the doctor seemed to have a sudden recollection. "_Wait! _T-they must be taking her to the AMRS. It's t-the only other p-place in the city they would have any interest in. Please…don't shoot me!" Burke's words turned into a senseless babble as he wept bitterly.

"What's the AMRS, Burke?" Zeke asked then snarled and shook the man when he failed to respond quickly enough. This was taking too long, giving these B.O.N.E.S. soldiers too much time to gain ground, giving Rachel's injuries too much time to catch up with her. Giving the creatures lurking in the darkness too much time to find them. "Tell me, Burke!"

"The Arklay Mountain Research Station!" The doctor wailed. "It's a facility owned by Umbrella. All on going projects in Raccoon have to report their findings to the staff there monthly if they want to continue to receive funding from the head office. Umbrella wouldn't risk any of those documents being found – even one word from them could be enough to incriminate all the board members." Suddenly, Burke's eyes turned pleading and he clutched the lieutenant's shoulder with one hand. "We could get away there. There'd be helicopters on the roof…and an underground trolley if they're already gone. We could all get away."

"That's more or less what the fucker said about this place," Shank gestured vaguely to the flaming wreckage crumbling behind him, "and we nearly all got barbequed. I say we screw what he says about this secret lab – or whatever the fuck it is – take the van, ram through one of the barricades and keep on trucking till this place is nothing more than a speck in the rearview mirror."

"I'm not leaving without Rachel." Zeke said firmly, standing up and holstering his pistol, leaving Burke to clutch his face and weep. The lieutenant looked around at all the other faces then – dirty, scared and pained – he hung his head and sighed. "None of you have to come with me though. These are hardly normal circumstances so I won't hold it against anyone for leaving – even my own people – I've hardly been doing a bang up job at running things around here. Personally, I think knocking down a barricade and making a run for it would be the safest course of action compared to what I'm about to try."

Wesley was the first to shake his head, a rueful grin on his face. "If anyone can get us out of this bloody pisshole it's you. We're with you until the end, Zeke, one way or another." The other Rangers formed up behind him and nodded. Zeke felt a flush of pride: they were his men – but one of them was a traitor – possibly working for Umbrella – he couldn't afford to forget that.

"Well," Skip shrugged, "it's not like I've got anything better to do for the rest of the night so I might as well just hang out with you guys for the time being."

Kathryn sighed and actually managed a small grin. "I figure there's still a lot of work to be done before we get out of here so I might as well stick with you guys and let you do all the heavy lifting. I'm in."

"You had better believe me and Tech are with you, L.T." Shank added right on her heels, adjusting the strap of the M-4 that now rested on his shoulder. "These Umbrella nutslappers killed four of our brothers so if I want payback I figure you're the guy to be around." Tech nodded enthusiastically beside his companion.

Zeke turned to stare at Officer Gabbor. "What about you Eddie?"

Tonguing his cheek, the young officer shifted his eyes over each member of the group all looking back with their features set in expressions of unshakable determination. Finally, Eddie blew out a long breath and threw his hands in the air.

"Fine," he said at last sounding halfway between anger and mirth, "I suppose if we're all going to die here we might as well do it together – make things efficient. Besides, you clowns will probably need me before the night's done. It's hell being lucky." He sighed and Shank laughed.

Maybe they all were a little crazy, Zeke thought as he studied their faces and nodded his approval, but they all had to make their own decisions. They had seen how many had lost their lives with him steering the ship and still they trusted him. They were _definitely _a little crazy. _So are you but who cares? Stop wasting time and start working on finding Rachel. _

Hauling Burke up by his collar, Zeke tossed the doctor roughly into the closed doors of the SWAT van and held him in place. "The research station, how do I find it?" He demanded.

Burke winced before answering. "It's in the Arklay Forest. I-I can direct you there."

"Fuck that!" Shank spat. "I wouldn't trust this rat if he told me the sky was blue."

"No time to argue, boss." Coop said from a short distance. Shuffling footsteps and gurgling moans drawing near confirmed the corporal's words. It was time to be off.

"I say we leave the son of a bitch for those things," Tech said, sneering as always, pulling the Glock from his waistband, "but first we take out his legs."

Burke squeaked something incomprehensible and groped at the lieutenant's wrist. Until that moment, Zeke had no idea a man could sweat so much or his eyebrows could climb so high. He smacked Burke's hand away roughly, pushing his head up against the door and staring into his watery eyes.

"Zeke Wilcott is no murderer." He said coldly before pulling open one door and stuffing the emotionally shattered Greg Burke into the back. Zeke hoped he wouldn't have to remind himself of that fact again.

The others followed after him quickly, Eddie climbing into the driver's seat, the soulless, hungry cries drifting along the night air adding to their haste. Shank hopped in last, wrapping a meaty paw around Burke's throat and slamming his head back into the wall.

"If you're lying to us again, you little shitstain," he growled as Burke clawed at his wrist to no avail, "I'll make you regret the first day your mother _looked _at your father."

Shank took his seat as Skip drew the doors shut and Eddie got them moving again. As the van rumbled off into the night, Zeke stared across at Burke as he rubbed at his neck and called out directions to the front of the van. If he was lying then Rachel was as good as dead. If he was lying then it would be Zeke Wilcott who made him regret his birth. _Shank will just have to take a number and get in line. _Zeke thought the Psycho would understand if it came to that.

Author's Note: A new chapter for you my Readers. Please read and review when you get the chance, I want to know what/who you like/dislike as always. Check for another update within a week or two. Thank you for reading and don't forget to drop a review. Enjoy!


	27. Into the Forest

**Chapter 26: Into The Forest**

October 2, 1998

9:30 PM

The Arklay Forest

Rain fell in fat drops between the branches of oak and fir trees, turning the ground into a muddy soup beneath the B.O.N.E.S. troopers boots. A harsh, biting wind whistled through the trees like the voice of a ghost, stirring the blanket of red and orange leaves littering the forest floor, drawing more down from the canopy overhead. Moonlight painted everything in a soft silver glow, making Rico feel even colder somehow. Cold and miserable. Oh, and hungry too, it felt like his last meal had been years ago.

_Almost outta here though, _he reminded himself, watching his boots to avoid snapping any thin twigs or the like beneath his feet. If any of Umbrella's pets had made it this far then moving silently was priority numero uno. Fighting the freaks was difficult enough on its own, fighting them in the dark, in a rainstorm, in the middle of a forest – well, that was not exactly a pretty picture in itself either. _We just need to hit the AMRS, download the files, activate the self-destruct and take one of the choppers back home. I can change my drawers, swig a beer and maybe catch two frigin' minutes of sleep – if we ever even get to the bloody outpost that is. _

Rico glanced back to where Sven was lumbering with the girl over one shoulder, holding the M-60 in his free hand, and felt his mood darken further. Jumping head-first into some hillbilly American's trap was insulting enough but then Smith had to go and pull some action movie hero bullshit and take someone hostage. A _hostage_! Their orders were to _eliminate _any survivors not lug them through the woods like a sack of grain.

What they were supposed to do with the prisoner Smith hadn't made clear, only saying that the girl would serve as "leverage" in case the army dipshits showed up again. Rico would eat his bootlaces if they did. Everyone of them was just bits and pieces now, dead when Petrovsky hit the switch and turned Saint Jude's into a bonfire – but Smith didn't see it that way of course.

Another thing the supervisor had neglected to mention was what, exactly, they were to do with her once it came time to jet. Taking the girl along was certainly out of the question but Smith hadn't suggested killing her either. The "Smith" Rico Da Silva knew was hardly a soft man – during his time under the man Rico had once thought he ate iron for dinner and steel for dessert – but if he couldn't bring himself to pop the girl then Rico would. He had killed women before, it was difficult at first – a little – but as with all things it became easier with practice.

The smell of wet wood and grass floated up to the major's nostrils, reminding him of the air freshener he kept hanging from his rearview mirror. He would have given anything to be back in his living room with his feet kicked up, a beer in his hand and a cute piece of ass on his lap – but you didn't earn your pay that way. Time as money as the saying went and they were lagging something serious.

Rico paused at the side of the trail they were walking and allowed Foller to file past him followed by Petrovsky then Sven and finally Mick. The men moved in a rigid line, sopping wet but heads up and weapons ready all the same. He kept their discipline honed to a fine point, letting your guard down on a B.O.N.E.S. op was the same as signing your own death sentence. When Smith walked up, Rico fell into line beside him.

"The girl is slowing us down," he said softly, keeping his eyes on the stretch of dirt track ahead, doing his best to ignore the pitter-pat of raindrops running down his mask. "She's hurt bad – Mick said she's probably dying, internal wounds or some such. You sure picked a fine candidate to take captive…sir. Oh yeah, before I forget, what were you thinking back there when you ditched your rifle?"

"It was unnecessary baggage, major," Smith said casually, the silver light slipping through treetops glinting off the sample case in his hand. "I have the variant strain and that's all that should be of any importance to you. As for the young lady," he shrugged, "she may yet prove to be of some use. Now, if you're quite finished, why don't _you _prove to be of some use by watching our flank, major."

That was it, Rico decided Smith had just snapped the very last straw. No more sneers behind his back. It was time for Smith to meet his maker up close and personal.

Glaring at his supervisor, Rico drifted into the back of the line, giving the appearance of a good little subordinate, allowing Smith to take three more steps before raising his rifle and pulling the trigger. The bark of the AK-47 shattered the silence of the forest – dangerous, but well worth the price – the troopers ahead of him skidded to a halt, whirling on the source of the nose. Five holes had erupted in Smith's back, spilling out blood and puffs of smoke. The supervisor plodded forward one more step before dropping face first into the muck.

"How's that for useful, you son of a bitch?" Rico asked the corpse then laughed as the others looked on. Most likely they were surprised by his actions, perhaps even a little frightened of the consequences, but all Rico could feel was relief: that a man like "Smith" had, at long last, been given the fate he deserved and, as a plus, was no longer around to gum up Rico Da Silva's operation. Besides, killing a supervisor wasn't such a big deal – they faced the same risks as any B.O.N.E.S. operative and had succumbed to them before.

"Gentlemen," Rico said, keeping his voice loud to be heard clearly above the beat of the rain, "Supervisor Smith never made it to the Arklay Forest – in fact he never even made it to Saint Jude's. One of the Shaigans surprised us in the sewers and though our efforts to save such a…distinguished…man were truly heroic he nevertheless fell victim to his injuries minutes before. We mourned his loss then moved on to complete the rest of our objectives."

The others nodded their understanding and Foller even laughed. The Austrailian had a love for murder and conniving – maybe too much so but for now they could all be trusted to keep their tongues behind their teeth about Smith's execution. They were good soldiers – for the most part – who followed orders and didn't ask too many questions. With Smith gone Rico no longer needed to worry about their loyalties being manipulated anyway.

"I'll just take this off your hands." Rico said, crouching down to remove the sample case from Smith's hand. The body became a blur, pain rocketed up his arm and the AK fell from his fingers. There was no time to think let alone reach for another weapon as strong fingers wrapped around Rico's neck, crushing the life from him.

_How? _Was all Rico could wonder as he choked and spluttered, grasping at the hand that was strangling him to death. He pried at the fingers on his throat but they might as well have been made of granite. They _felt _made of granite. Startled cries rose from his men and he could see Mick Murphy actually fall flat on his butt out of the corner of his eye. _How? _

It was Smith who held him a full six inches off the ground…with one hand. Smith held him but Smith was dead, Rico had shot the man moments ago, saw him fall. _No one _survived when Rico Da Silva put a bullet through them. It was impossible, it was…

Breathless and dizzy, his strength failing, Rico had no air to gasp when his bullet casings – all five of them – fell _out _of Smith's chest. The shells clattered to the ground, still wet with the man's blood. Mick Murphy scrambled backwards, muttering what sounded like prayers beneath his breath…While the rest just looked on as if glued to the ground!

"Shoot…shoot him." Rico managed to choke out before Smith tightened his already iron grip, fresh agony tore through the major.

"Your men would just be wasting ammo, major." Smith said coolly. Rico coughed in answer. "But if you must then you must." No one so much as raised a weapon.

"You're…dead." Rico said, stars bursting behind his eyelids now.

"And you're stupid!" Smith snarled, his icy exterior turning to quicksilver in an instant. A bad sign. "You're a blundering incompetent! I could snap your neck like a _pencil, _major, but…sadly…I require you to live awhile longer."

Before he was even through speaking Smith threw Rico roughly to the dirt. His throat ached and burned as he sucked in oxygen greedily but at least he could breathe again. Petrovsky and Foller came to help him up but he shoved them away with a curse. No cowards were going to give him any assistance. He would strip their hides when they got back to base!

"What the hell are you?" Rico asked, climbing to his feet, snatching his rifle from Foller's hand.

Smith stopped and turned, staring at Rico from behind his mask intently. Rico feel this skin crawl in the wake of that scrutiny. The man wasn't human it was as simple as that.

"I am evolution, major," Smith said it as if it were an irrefutable fact, "I am life after death. Dust yourself off and regain what remains of your self-respect. We are behind schedule as it is and you have cost us even more time."

Rubbing his throat, Rico watched Smith march up the trail, urging the others to fall back into line. The man that had mentored him all those years ago had never been renowned for his mercy yet he could have killed Rico then and there, with good reason – without breaking a _sweat _– and yet he had not. What was it he had said, that he "required" Rico to live a little longer?

_Why? Why didn't he kill me? _Rico wondered as the line reformed, he made sure to keep Sven's girth between himself and Smith. _Why did he let me live? _Rico had a feeling that when the time came he wouldn't like the answer.

Page Break ----------

The van had come to an abrupt halt upon touching the dirt track that lead into the forest, out of gas Officer Gabbor had said. Burke felt his horror mount when Lieutenant Wilcott had explained that they would proceed on foot through the Arklay woods – on foot, in the night, while it was raining! The man was either stupid or crazy or both, anyone with knowledge of the Project knew the forest would be a killing ground by this point. Whatever the case, the lieutenant seemed quite determined to get Miss Parker back – perhaps even to the point of suicide. Most definitely not the type of person Greg Burke liked to associate himself with.

"Please, lieutenant, I beg you to reconsider this!" Burke pleaded, feeling no shame at how much his voice broke, his life was at stake after all and besides, his nose hurt too much for him to care anyway. He would get his revenge on the hairy brute that broke it if it was the last thing he ever did. "We'll never make it out of these woods alive! You don't know what is out there!"

Wilcott looked at him with about as much emotion as a stone as Officers Ward and Gabbor pulled the doors open from the outside. "Tech, shut him up."

"Gladly," the weasel-faced, disgusting little _rodent _of a man grinned as he grabbed hold of Burke's shirt and tossed him roughly out into the rain. Something soft and wet gave way beneath the doctor as he landed with a strangled cry. He hoped it was mud.

The others began climbing out of the van then, the Rangers switching on their lights and scanning the tree line for threats. The fools, using flashlights! How much attention did they want to attract? They were_all _insane.

"Lieutenant," Burke said, undeterred, as he regained his feet. He would make this lot of ruffians and bullies see reason if he had to tear his hair out to do it. "You have to understand that these creatures are basically just animals, they have the same instincts. They'll _want _to escape the urban areas for environments like this! Just think how many could already be here by now! This is _death!_"

"Don't worry, Burke," Wilcott said, jumping down with Shank at his side. "I'll see that Shank here takes good care of you."

The biker smiled wide as he flexed one massive arm for effect before snatching Burke by his collar. Wilcott had assigned the unwashed, uneducated and uncaring beast to be his keeper and the thug simply reveled in his newfound authority. Burke could not even begin to count the number of times the illiterate had slapped him upside the head or hurled a curse his way since leaving Saint Jude's.

"Don't worry about the animals out there, Burke," Shank said, that toothy grin splitting his face in half, "worry about the one with his hand on your neck. You so much as sneeze without my say so and I'll break your legs." As if that was possible, Burke was almost sure his nose was broken in at least two places.

"Where are we going, Burke?" Zeke asked blandly.

"Follow the dirt track here until you come to a stream." What choice did he have? It was either tell the man what he wanted to know or be left behind to die – provided Shank didn't kill him first. "When you reach the stream you'll have to head into the woods to the east for about twenty yards. From there, keep walking north until I give the word. You'll need a passcode to gain access to the facility and I am _not _giving that up until we are out of the forest."

Wilcott merely stared at him for a moment, his face a mask of ice. Burke began to sweat. He was no soldier with training in how to resist fear and intimidation, if the lieutenant pointed a gun at him again Burke knew he would crack and give up everything. If that happened then he would be of no more use to them and they would be free to dispose of him in whatever manner they saw fit. Why drag around another person after all, especially one whom you felt had betrayed your trust somehow, they would only slow your pace.

Not for the first time that night, Burke wondered how things had come to this point. Everything had been going smoothly on his end of the Project, that was until one of the security guards – Burke had forgotten the man's name – became infected and attacked virologist Paul Weir. Weir then went on to spread the T-virus to two other members of Burke's staff. By then all security personnel were dead or worse and those still alive were coming down sick in greater numbers every day. Burke had no choice but to flee.

At least he hadn't left empty handed though, he still carried the computer disk with data relating to T-virus replication and resistance to treatment in his pocket and was quite relieved that the idiots hadn't thought to search him. Greg Burke was a good liar but he doubted even he could explain away that.

"Alright," Wilcott said after a moment and Burke discovered he could breathe again, "let's move out, time's wasting.

They moved out along the dirt trail with two of the lieutenant's Rangers guarding the front and three taking up the rear. Wilcott himself stayed near Burke as Shank pulled him along by the scruff of the neck. Though he did his best to maintain his composure, Burke still found himself jumping at every shadow that stretched along the path and every gust of wind that set branches to swaying and tree limbs groaning. He could _feel _the eyes of some hideous abomination watching him from the snake grass as they walked through the rain. Abominations he had helped create.

_All in the name of science, _Burke told himself as Eddie Gabbor began to complain about the rainfall ruining his hair do. The others roared with laughter but Burke failed to understand what was so funny – the man didn't have a hair on his head. _All in the name of science and progress. _

The thought always helped to cheer the doctor up whenever he felt a pang of conscience about the work he was doing. What a despicable thing the conscience was, completely without any sense of realism or ambition! The work he was doing now could one day make men and women immortal. No one would ever need to fear death if only the virus could be made more stable.

"Lieutenant!" Scott Owens cried excitedly, his youthful face alight with both hope and apprehension as he held out the radio to Wilcott. "I just received a transmission from command, sir. It's General Bosa."

His face still a grim mask Lieutenant Wilcott pressed the receiver to his ear. "This is Lieutenant Wilcott," he said, "go ahead."

"Lieutenant," the voice on the other end, gruff and tinged with an almost transparent Southern accent replied. "This is General Bosa."

"Yes, sir," Wilcott answered, the rest of the group staring at him with eager, hopeful faces. Skip actually had his hands clasped together. "It's good to hear your voice, general, we were starting to think you had forgotten about us. I hope you have some good news for me and my guys, sir."

There was a long pause on the other end of the line, nothing to be heard but the hiss of static. Kathy began worrying her lip, Skip muttered under his breath. Burke eyed the tree line, surely the creatures had heard the sounds of the men talking if they hadn't already seen the glow of their lights.

"I'm afraid not, lieutenant." Bosa sighed and all those hopeful faces fell. Skip unclasped his hands and kicked a rock into one of the tree trunks dotting the path. Burke winced at the noise. "I tried, I tried for hours to get another team out to you, lieutenant but command wouldn't have it. They've already lost three entire groups out there along with most of yours. There'll be no air support either the president has labeled Raccoon City as a quarantine zone – nothing in or out. I'm sorry, lieutenant, but you're on your own out there."

Wilcott paused a moment before answering, his jaw set and lips tight. Burke tensed, the Ranger looked ready to hit something and the doctor knew he must be high on the list of things Zeke Wilcott would like to give a beating to.

"I understand, sir." The lieutenant responded plainly, staring at his boots. "So much for leaving no man behind, huh?"

"I'm sorry, son, but this isn't like anything we've ever seen before. Please believe that I went to bat for you." Bosa sounded as tired and disgusted as the lieutenant. "There's more though. The crew at the White House are worried about this thing spreading outside Raccoon…a sanitation order has been issued. At dawn a tactical nuclear strike will be launched against the city. The approximate time of the launch will be oh-seven-hundred hours."

"Holy shit." Skip muttered, swaying on his feet until Kathryn steadied him with a touch on the shoulder. "A nuke."

Eddie snorted, "So much for being lucky," and began to hum a tune Burke thought he recognized. _Luck Be A Lady Tonight? _

"You're going to have to find a way out of town before then, lieutenant." Bosa continued. "I'm sorry, Zeke, God knows it." The general sighed heavily then went on. "A radio blackout has been ordered from the end of this communication until the detonation of the missile. The president wants all traces of the Raccoon incident and the Ranger incursion wiped away before the public finds out how many of our boys died out there. It's fucking politics, Zeke. I pray to God you all make it out of there with a whole skin but there's nothing more I can do for you on this end. God might not forgive me for this but I hope you and your men will. This is Bosa, over and out." There was a click and then nothing but the empty hiss of static.

"Our list of options just got shorter." Wilcott said, hanging up the radio though he looked more like he wanted to throw it. "No help is coming. We're on our own from here on out."

"Game over," Tech said with a shaky, panicked laugh, "game fucking over. They aren't even going to _try _and help us, it's just, drop the bomb, tally the numbers and we all get swept under the goddamn rug! Gotta love the good ol' U.S. of A. Shit, we might as well already be dead – we are on paper!"

"We aren't dying here," Wilcott said and his expression was so fierce that it shut the rambling biker up instantaneously. "Burke said there were helicopters and a tram at this research station that we can use. We're going to collect Rachel, hit the station and get the hell out of here before the Air Force turns it into a parking lot."

"And if the rat is lying again?" Shank asked, giving Burke's collar a shake. Again, the doctor flinched and was suddenly glad this was one of the rare times he had told someone the whole, unabashed truth.

"If he's lying," Wilcott began, stepping over and staring Burke in the eye. The Ranger's face was dark and smudged with filth but beneath that there was no emotion, no feeling left in the man. He was a stone, a man with nothing to lose. A shiver ran up Burke's spine and he lowered his eyes. "If he's lying then I'll strap him to the roof of the goddamn building so he has a front row seat when the nuke hits."

"I-I assure you everything I told you was true, Lieutenant Wilcott." Burke stammered, knowing the other man meant every word he said and believed nothing he heard – from Greg Burke at least. "W-we should make haste though, now that we have a c-clock to work against and – " Burke felt his bowels clench painfully as the dense brush began to rustle on all sides of the path and Officer Gabbor raised his voice.

"Oh shit." The young cop said, pressing the stock of his shotgun to one shoulder.

"Lieutenant?" Skip asked uncertainly, raising his pistol and turning in a loose circle.

"Form up." Wilcott ordered, dropping into a crouch and the others imitated him, Shank dragging Burke down as the Rangers spread out in a protective ring around the group.

Sweat broke out anew across Burke's forehead and he wiped it away absently with the back of his shirtsleeve. What could be out there? Hunters, certainly but which series? Maybe the Drain Deimoses too. Or…_It wasn't supposed to be this way. I was supposed to be out of the city by now, the Project was supposed to be over and I was supposed to be back at the head quarters in Europe, a rich man. I was supposed to be out of here. _

Burke's heart thumped so loudly in his chest that he was sure whatever lurked in the woods must be able to hear it. The wind howled but it had nothing to do with the sounds of shifting mud and snapping foliage coming from the long grass encircling the path. Weapons raised, Burke began to pant. _It wasn't supposed to be this way. Umbrella was supposed to fly me out and have a stack of cash and a glass of brandy waiting for me when I got back. This is all wrong. _

There was the sound of something testing the air with its nose – almost all T-subjects could hunt through scent alone – and eight shadowy figures skulked out onto the path from either side. They were dogs – had been, once – sleek, muscular Dobermans with eyes as dark and red as blood. These particular Dobermans were missing large sections of skin and fur though, the reddish-pink of sinew and tendons glistening in the moonlight, wet with the falling rain. Cerberuses, these creatures were called by the Project technicians hell hounds, and they suited the name. Baring teeth as they caught sight of their prey, the dogs reared back on their strong haunches, bits of unidentifiable meat dripping from in between quivering jaws.

A shotgun blast shook the night, one of the pack's head's exploding in a sudden eruption of blood and bone fragments. _It wasn't supposed to be this way._ Growling, the hounds charged and everyone began to fire, the bullets knocking the Cerberuses back but they always rose again, gnashing their teeth. _It wasn't supposed to be this way! _The pop of pistols was swallowed by the heavy boom of Gabbor's shotgun which in turn was eaten up by the chatter of automatics. Barking, the hell hounds pounced and someone screamed as one of the pack landed atop them. The shotgun fell silent. _It _was not _supposed to be this way!_

Darkness surrounded the doctor, the only sounds the crack of gunfire, Wilcott shouting and the ravenous barking of the infected Dobermans. Burke understood the sounds if not the darkness, he had been able to see a moment ago but then he realized that he had his head tucked firmly between his knees and was trembling violently. Gregory Burke had never been a brave man but he was a perceptive one and thus noticed quite quickly that Shank was no longer manhandling him.

Daring to look up, the doctor saw that his guard had his hands full as it was, pulling a Cerberus off the struggling Officer Gabbor and snapping its neck with his bare hands. Some might have considered the action brave but Burke knew a madman when he saw one and Shank was a madman not a hero. The man was an _animal. _

Ahead of him the others fought in an ever collapsing circle with their backs to each other. The muzzle flashes illuminated faces soaked with rain and perspiration, fixed in expressions of stalwart determination and impossible fear. The bushes and high grass lining the path trembled spitting out more of the skinned dogs barking madly as they tore towards the group. They only came from either side though, Burke saw, the way behind was perfectly clear.

Without another thought for the matter, Burke climbed to his feet and took off at a dead sprint back the way they had come. The rain slapping at his face, his stomach churning violently, Burke had no concern for anything but his own safety. He cared for nothing except the need to get away. He _had _to get away.

"_Burke!_" Shank bellowed from somewhere far behind and the doctor shrieked but didn't dare slow down. If he was caught now they would drag him back into that hell and gladly offer him up to the dogs to buy themselves time. Bullets ripped up the soil at his feet as Shank opened fire and Burke veered into the trees to his right to escape the hail of lead.

The forest surrounded him, sharp brambles tugging at his pant legs while branches slashed the skin of his face, drawing blood. Burke didn't care though, the pain was nothing compared to that which Shank would inflict if slowed down now. Burke ran through the dark brush, knowing he was making a dangerous amount of noise but all rationality in him was overridden by the desire – no, the _need _– to be gone. _It wasn't supposed to be this way! _ Saying it did not make it so though.

Burke cried out in surprise as something snagged his foot and sent him tumbling end over end down a steep hill. He fell for what felt like hours, mud and dead leaves adhering to his shirt and face, before finally coming to rest at the bottom of the incline. He groaned, his head, his back , his legs – everything ached. Burke raised his right hand and saw one finger pointing in the wrong direction – dislocated.

"_Skree! Skree!" _The feral cry from deep in the shadows drove all thoughts of pain from Burke's mind and replaced them with a primal terror. He would have recognized the call of a Hunter anywhere.

_What series though? _Burke wondered in his panic, scrambling to get his legs back under him. Surely the Hunter had already seen him – their eyes were incredibly sharp in the dark and even if the creature was blind it could still smell him out. _Is it 121, 3K, Beta, Gamma – what? _

No, none of that mattered. All that mattered was to be elsewhere when the abomination arrived. Burke took off at a run again – when the leaves in the treetop to his left shook and the branches creaked, straining to support a heavy burden. The doctor had just enough time to open his mouth and form a scream before something with burning crimson eyes leapt from the canopy and knocked the breath from his body.

Suddenly Burke could see the silver sphere of the moon and realized he was lying on his back in the rain, sucking in rapid, uneven breaths. He felt wetness on his shirt and pressed a hand to his stomach. It came away dripping with his blood.

The shadow with the fiery eyes stood above him now, sniffing at the blood in the air. Wet, glistening talons twitched in the moonlight. It was a shadow with claws, death borne of the night – a monster. One he had helped create. _All in the name of science. _

"It wasn't supposed to be this way." Burke whispered but the creature didn't understand him – couldn't understand him. With a final trilling cry it brought a hand of knives down across the doctor's face. There was a moment of pain beyond reason and then Gregory Burke felt no more.

Author's Note: Here's the next chapter, my Readers. I hope you enjoy. Please don't forget to drop a review after reading. Love it or hate it, let me know – I'm always starving for feedback so let me know what/who you like/dislike. Stay tuned for another update in a week or two. Thank you for your patronage and enjoy!


	28. Fire, Pain and Blackness

**Chapter 27: Fire, Pain and Blackness**

October 2, 1998

9:58 PM

Arklay Forest

Eddie Gabbor had never thought of any animal as man's best friend, let alone mangy, disobedient dogs. Maybe that was not such an objective opinion based on the fact that a German Sheppard had mauled him quite severely when he was ten but he thought it was true for the most part. In his book, all dogs were mongrels fit for the pound so he had no qualms about being the first to shoot when the red-eyed little monsters had started jumping out of the bushes on all sides. _Dogs, why did it have to be dogs? _

There was a gruesome eruption of blood and bone as the buckshot burst the creature's head like an over-ripe melon. Smiling smugly as the headless body stiffened and fell limp, Eddie chambered another round and opened up another canine skull to his left. _Sorry mutts but I don't plan on being turned into puppy chow tonight. _

A harsh crack to his right drew Eddie's attention. Swiveling on one knee, the young officer watched as another of the skinned pooches bounded towards him from out of the snake grass. Eyes of flame burned into his with such intensity it was as if the hellhound was trying to bore a hole straight through to his soul. Canine teeth flashed in the moonlight, the stench of rotten meat wafting over the rookie in nauseating waves. He raised the Mossburg, knowing it was too late, the mongrel was too close, but instinct had taken over and he was powerless to stop it. A moment later it hit him.

Muddy ground gave way beneath Eddie with a disgusting wet squishing noise as the crazed Doberman pounced on his chest, driving the air from his lungs in a painful rush. The smell of the beast was simply intolerable but the young cop reminded himself to throw up later. For now, he decided that if he lived long enough to wretch then he would consider it a good day.

Eddie had only a second to react and used the moment to its full potential. Gripping the Mossburg by either end he wedged the slide between the Doberman's strong jaws. Metal and wood groaned in protest as the frustrated creature tried to chew through the weapon. A second slower and it would have been his face the flea-ridden mutt was gnawing on. Lucky again but what would happen when that well ran dry?

_You might be as lucky as a leprechaun with a rabbit's foot, brickhead, _Ben Tredd taunted from inside his skull, _but this hairy mother fucker has you pinned and more of his buddy keep on springing out of the hedges like weeds. What are you going to do now, newbie? Can you answer that? _

Eddie shut the voice out, focusing on keeping the twelve-gauge where it was as the dog trashed its head violently from side to side. It couldn't be Ben anyway – Ben Tredd was dead – and Eddie didn't think he was crazy – not crazy enough at least – to be hearing his dead partner rag on him from beyond the grave. Dead or not though, Ben did have a point: Eddie Gabbor was in some incredibly thick stew.

Again the beast shook its head with a muffled growl, attempting to wrench the shotgun from his grip and Eddie had to grit his teeth to keep his aching arms from letting the Mossburg drop. It was the only thing standing between him and a very messy end, the rookie was sure. Saliva dripped from the canine's mouth in thick strands, splattering across Eddie's forehead and cheek. The creature's spit was revoltingly warm and smelled as badly as the Doberman itself – reeking of spoiled meat and dry blood. Eddie fought to urge to gag and growled nearly as loudly as the dog trying to make a meal out of him, though his cries from between clenched teeth came from abhorrence and the desire to survive.

"I'm not going out like this." He seethed at the beast, trying to push its bulk off his chest but it was no use. The muck he lay in gave no traction and the hellish dog was too strong besides. "I am _not _going to die here in the dirt! I am _not _going to let some fleabag have me for dinner! Now get up, Eddie, _get up!_"

Despite his reassurances there was nothing for it. His elbows slipped in the mud and wouldn't lock. The creature pushed him flat on his back every time he tried to rise, nearly tearing the twelve-gauge from his hands every time he so much as shifted. Those wicked red eyes locked with his and Eddie saw his own death reflected in their depths.

_You could call for help, _Tredd suggested with a short, snarky laugh, _just like you did at the barricade. Shit, I don't think even a little girl could scream that loud! Still, it was funny I'd never been paired up with a _total _chicken-shit before. _

"Shut up, Ben!" Eddie snarled and the dog he grappled with snarled back. So much for not being crazy, now he was talking to the voices in his head. So much for good luck at that. "I don't need any help!"

Not that there was anyone available to give it in any case. He couldn't see Zeke and the others but he could sure as hell hear them. The clatter of gunfire around him was so loud Eddie was astounded his eardrums hadn't popped yet. They had their own problems to deal with and he had his. _Cripes, and I used to think that doing my taxes was a problem! _

_Jesus, yellowbelly, you are one _sad _sack of shit, you know that? _Eddie ground his teeth so hard together he thought they might snap; silently wishing Tredd would be quiet. The dead shouldn't have the right to taunt the living. _Fuck, greenhorn, you could at least make it look like you were _trying _to fight the furry fucker off. _

Even dead, Benjamin Tredd was a total prick and Eddie felt fear turn to blistering hot rage in the blink of an eye. At that moment Eddie Gabbor hated his former partner more than he had ever hated a single human being before. He _despised _Ben for making him despise him – and then saving his life back in that alley by giving up his own. Why had he done it? Eddie suspected that even should he survive the night that one question would haunt him for the rest of time. Why had Ben done it?

"I'll show you." The rookie whispered from between gritted teeth, not sure if he was speaking to the dog or the voice of his deceased partner. "I'll show you."

Allowing the rage that burned in his veins like acid – the rage Tredd had birthed with his insults and put downs; the rage Eddie felt towards himself for letting the man die – to feed him strength, Officer Gabbor began to rise up. The dog snarled and fought back but its madness was no match for the might of the young man's anger and with a berserk cry Eddie _made _his elbows lock in the thick soup of mud surrounding him. The Doberman growled deep in its throat, Eddie did likewise.

_Push the fucker! _Tredd urged frantically from the shadows of his mind. _Get on your feet and break the bastard's head open, newbie! _

There was no need for Eddie to do anymore though. Strong, calloused hands, caked in dry blood, were lifting the weight of the killer hound from his chest. Those hands – more akin to a bear's deadly paws than man's hands – wrapped around the Doberman's neck and the animal barked madly, biting at the air and shadows. There was a resounding snap as those massive paws pulled in opposite directions and the hound's limp body fell at Eddie's feet dead as a post.

The flames of Eddie's fury cooled as quickly as they had been kindled and Shank came into view, breathing hard. The big man stood outlined by the moon, his dirty face streaked with rain, his coarse braided beard dripping with water. He looked tired – exhausted – but a thin grin still managed to touch his face. Only then did the young officer become aware that the sounds of gunfire were beginning to dwindle, growing blessedly quiet but escaping Raccoon City deaf still would have been a cause for celebration.

"Wrestling with a rabid dog?" Shank mused, offering a hand to the younger man. "Hell, even you ain't that lucky, kid."

"Tell me about it." Eddie grumbled, grasping the other man's palm and allowing him self to be pulled back up. "I guess I owe you one…another one, I mean."

Shank laughed, "Well, I just hope you make it up to me by buying the beers when we get out of this joint. I've had my life saved enough times for one n – " The Psycho cut off with a sudden look of wild surprise and passionate hate, staring at something over Eddie's shoulder, "_Burke!_"

A terrified shriek reached Eddie's ears as he turned to watch the doc running like a bat out of hell back the way they had come. The chatter of an assault rifle next to his head made the young officer cringe, turning to see Shank holding the M4 he now wore around one shoulder, holding the trigger down. From what Eddie had seen of the man the past two nights he was a decent shot but automatics apparently weren't his forte as the rounds ripped up the dirt at Burke's feet but left the man himself untouched. With another fearful squeal, the underhanded, conniving, greasy – since Saint Jude's Eddie had thought up at least twenty other adjectives to describe the man – crashed through the tree line.

"Damn it!" Shank cursed, scowling. "When I get my hands on that son of a - I'm going after him!" That last was directed to the lieutenant who glanced up at the big man as the last of the hellish mutts fell to his rifle.

"Alright," Zeke said, hastily looking in the direction Burke went. "Pierce and Wes, you go with him. Stay sharp!" He added as the three men lopped into the dense wood.

The wait was not long but it seemed like years to Eddie before the trio reappeared. He had never been all that good at waiting and not knowing what fresh new terror lurked out in the dense woodland, waiting to rend you in half and chew on whatever fell out did not make things a great deal easier. Eventually the three men did return though and the young officer felt his chest loosen – a small bit anyway.

They came crashing through the wet brush wearing a myriad of expressions. Shank looked pale but smugly satisfied at the same time, he even wore a slight grin. Pierce was solid as stone and grim as death like usual. Wesley Creeks appeared like a man who had just stepped off the deck of ship in a squall, that is to say he looked two steps from throwing up everything he had ever eaten. Burke was not among them though and while Eddie had never been a genius at math it did not take a genius to put two and two together and come up with the reason for Shank and Wesley's apparent discomfort.

"We found the doc," Shank said a moment later, raking a thumb across his throat, "pieces of him at least. Whatever got a hold of Burke apparently doesn't trim its nails. I'm not going to lose any sleep over it though – that rat got what he had coming to him. Shit, seems like the universe is actually starting to balance itself out."

Eddie noticed that the others did not share the biker's enthusiasm. Kathryn scrubbed a hand across her eyes and sniffed deeply. Scott took to studying his feet as if they interested him a great deal and even Tech, Shank's man to the end, scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably. Sure, Burke had tried to use their trust in him against them but you could hardly feel _glad _that a human being – whatever his convictions – had just been torn to bits by something that for all rights should never have existed. Unless you were Shank, of course.

"Great," Skip sighed, using his shirt-sleeve to mop a reddish-black stain – Doberman blood probably – from his cheek, "so he's dead then. Now how the hell are we supposed to get into this AM-thingy? Didn't he say something about us needing his password?"

"Don't worry about that, kid." Tech said, the smile on his weasely face a shocking sight after all his scowling. "There isn't an electronic lock in the world to date that can keep me out if I don't want it to. Lieutenant, if your guys can keep whatever is running around in this forest off my back for five minutes then I _guarantee _I can crack the lock and get us the fuck out of here. Shit, it used to be my job."

Well, the man had confidence, Eddie had to give him that. Confidence or hubris, depending on your outlook. He _had _just said that he could beat the encryption on a system he had most likely never seen before.

"Alright," Lieutenant Wilcott said and Eddie realized that all eyes were fixed on the Ranger – including his own. Zeke had become their leader, their captain, almost since their first meeting but the rookie hadn't really noticed it until now, it had just seemed natural that the man should be the one calling the shots. Still, Eddie could not help but wonder how the man must feel with so many strangers looking to him for guidance and direction in a crisis like the one they had been thrust into. "I'll give you all the time you need once we reach the place, Tech, but first we need to get Rachel back – and I think I know how to handle that. Let's move it out, keep your eyes open and your ears sharp, I don't want whatever got Burke getting the drop on us."

The lieutenant led the way and the others followed, trusting the man to take them down the right path, to escape and safety. Above, the sky unleashed its full fury. Lightning sundered the sky, thunder shook the air and rain fell in blankets. Eddie barely noticed though, his eyes already looking past the night and the storm to clean clothes and warm food – or his own death. Either way, he promised himself not to feel surprise when the time came.

"Nice night, huh?" Shank said, falling in at his side with a sardonic grin.

"Tell me about it," Eddie sighed, "I'm beginning to think that getting out of bed today was a big mistake."

Shank laughed, "I hear that."

It was strange what nearly dying together could do to foster the growth of a friendship, Eddie thought as he ran alongside, joking with a man whom under normal circumstances he would have avoided like a leper. Strange or not, it was really of no import. All that mattered was getting out of Raccoon City alive.

_Will you though? _Eddie wondered as Zeke called for the group to double-time it from up ahead. _Or will you just wind up dead, peeled like a ripe piece of fruit or eaten alive? Will you just wind up another lifeless sack of flesh and bones like Sam Brocket, William Brown and poor ol' Howard Peterson? Well, brickhead, got an answer? _Scowling, Eddie blocked the voice out when he realized it was Ben Tredd speaking again.

Maybe he would die here and maybe he wouldn't, either way he would not be surprised by the outcome – Raccoon City could do wonders for ridding a man of feeling surprise. If he was going to die here though, Eddie hoped it happened soon. He had never been al that good at waiting.

Page Break ----------

Fire, pain, blackness. That was all Rachel Parker could remember. Fire, pain, blackness. Somehow she managed to find the strength to open her eyes and found a starless sky looking down on her, rain pelted her face, soaked her clothes. Fire, pain, blackness.

Trees surrounded her, the pilot saw as she rose to a sitting position, might oaks and tall firs all painted silver in the light of the moon. Grass and dirt turned to a muddy stew, rested beneath her. Orange and red and brown leaves covered the ground in a blanket of dead foliage. From somewhere up ahead came the soft babbling of a stream.

_Where am I?_ Fire, pain, blackness. _How did I get here?_ Fire, pain, blackness. It hurt to think, to remember. Rachel's whole body hurt, her leg most of all though she could not recall why. She could not recall anything but her own name and the fire, pain, blackness.

"About time we got a chow break." A man's voice thick with an Australian accent said from beside Rachel. "Feels like I haven't had bite in a month."

"You had better use that mouth for chewing instead of talking then." Said another man from close by, his accent distinctly Irish. "Smith said we couldn't take any longer than ten minutes and after that little…skirmish…the major didn't seem much for arguing."

The voices drew Rachel's eyes. Seated on the grass only two or three feat from her were two men dressed from head to toe in black, eating from thin packets that she knew contained military rations. Slung across either man's back was a heavy looking rucksack, laying in their laps was a gas mask and automatic rifle. Fire, pain, blackness. Memory flare like a sunburst.

Everything came back to Rachel in a rush, the images playing like a film reel behind her eyes. The chopper crash, Sullivan's death, the zombies, those horrible skinned creatures in Skip's garage. Saint Jude's hospital came last, she lay in a hallway feeling weak and tired, resting her head on Zeke's strong shoulder and then nothing but fire and pain and the blackness.

"No." She whispered, realizing that these must have been the group who assaulted her friends back at the hospital, rolling a grenade into their midst. How many had they killed? Was Zeke still alive, was he injured? Both heads swiveled her way and Rachel thought that speaking might have been an error.

Whoever the men were they meant her harm, had tried to kill her companions and she did not much care to see what their reactions would be to find her conscious. Rachel bounded to her feet – then collapsed with a scream as fresh pain bloomed in her leg. She fell; mud and grass forcing their way into her mouth as the pain almost blinded her. Then strong hands were rolling her over, pinning her down.

"Hello, my lovely." The Australian said, pressing his knee into her stomach. Rachel screamed and he smiled. "Awake are we?"

He was a hard faced man, his features looking carved from stone with a scar running down the right side of his face that turned up the corner of his lip in a cruel sneer. A thick coat of stubble clung to the Australian's chin, amplifying his wild look. His eyes were a vibrant shade of green, aflame with what Rachel could only think to describe as lust – she feared what the subject of that lust might be.

"Who are you?" She groaned, the weight on her belly seeming to increase the fire in her leg. Rachel tried to struggle but the Aussie held her tight. It was no use anyway, her injury made her about as fearsome as a newborn kitten. She knew the wound would kill her, she could feel it draining the life from her every second.

"Sergeant Rodney Foller," he said, drawing a knife from behind his belt and pressing the edge to her throat. He looked at her as a starving man might look at a slab of beef. Rachel realized with disgust that Foller was licking his lips. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Now, Mick over there is going to keep watch while you and I get better acquainted – I think we have enough time. It's been a long while since I had a woman, love, but I'll try and show you a good time."

Rachel cringed and cried out with equal parts horror and revulsion as she felt Foller's free hand crawling up her inner thigh. Desperately, she tried to fend him off, to kick and punch and struggle but it was no use. He was a strong, healthy soldier; she was bleeding to death.

Hating herself for being so weak, Rachel could only weep as she felt the Australian's weight atop her, the smell of his sweat making her gag. She cursed Foller to hell and prayed that Ezekiel Wilcott was still alive to send him there.

_Hurry, _she urged her friend silently, _please hurry, Zeke. _All she could do was hope he could somehow hear her thoughts. Foller grunted something as he undid his belt and for the first time that night Rachel wished the blackness would crash over her again and shut out the sound of Foller's lewd, taunting laughter. _Hope, there's no hope left in Raccoon City. _

Rachel knew it for the truth and wept all the harder because of it.

Author's Note: Here's the new chapter, Readers and I'd personally like to thank all of you that have read and reviewed my work. I hope that you will enjoy this installment and stay tuned for a new one in a week or two. Please drop a review if you can, I'm hungry for your feedback as always. What/who do you like/dislike? Let me know. Enjoy!


	29. Keepers of the Forest

**Chapter 28: Keepers of the Forest**

October 2, 1998

11:25 PM

Arklay Forest

Finding the B.O.N.E.S. team had been a great deal easier than Zeke was anticipating. Ryan was the unit's best tracker but it had been Shank who truly led the pursuit. The Umbrella squad was skilled at hiding the traces of their passage and the rainfall had washed out most of their tracks besides but the big man had still been able to follow the meager trail of boot prints and snapped twigs without a moment of hesitation to their quarry. Zeke had been quite impressed to say the least but all Shank would offer for explanation was that he had worked as a wilderness guide once. The Ranger had no trouble believing that: with his unkempt hair and Viking-style beard he thought the Psycho would have been quite comfortable prowling the wild – or standing his ground on a frozen battlefield in medieval Iceland swinging a sword twice his size. Whatever the case, Zeke was grateful that fate seemed to be working in his favor for once.

Raising the night vision binoculars to his eyes once more, the forest turned to vibrant shades of neon green and white. Seven figures stood in a small clearing maybe forty meters ahead of where Zeke and the others lay hidden in the tall grass – well, six of them stood while the seventh lay at their feet, shunned and shivering in the pouring rain.

It took every drop of willpower in Zeke's being not to run to Rachel then and there. He wished he could do so, he wished he could run to her and bundle her in his arms and carry her away from all the despair suffocating Raccoon City. He wished it with every fiber in his body but he made himself stay; there were others he had to look out for now and being a hero might get more people than just himself killed. Zeke forced himself to stay concealed in the snake grass and thick brush while studying the other six figures.

They were the Umbrella cleaners all right, judging by the rifles hanging from their shoulders and the gas masks hiding their faces. They all stood around one of their number who traced one finger along a laminated map, apparently reviewing their route to the research station.

There was something odd about the man though and Zeke gaped when he realized what it was. There were bullet holes in his vest – _five _of them – but the trooper just went on with his lecture as if nothing were wrong. Zeke shook his head. It didn't matter he had seen stranger things than that during his time in Raccoon.

_It wouldn't matter if they were all standing around sipping tea and wearing purple hats._ Zeke reminded himself, adjusting the binoculars and zooming in closer on the prone figure of Rachel. Her whole body trembled. Her shoulders shook violently and she hid her face in her hands. She was crying. She was hurt. She was dying. _They killed Shots and Sam. They took Rachel. They tried to kill you. Nothing about them matters except that they die before the sun comes up. _Zeke nodded. He would keep that promise.

There was movement at his side and Zeke lowered the binoculars. Wesley lay stretched out in the wet grass beside him, wiping at the water streaming down his face with one hand. To the Brit's right was Shank, looking every bit the soldier with his M4 at the ready and one eye staring down the sight. Behind them lay Kathy, Tech and Skip, breathing hard and clutching their weapons close. At this range handguns would be useless but if Zeke's string of luck held and everything played out right then the whole encounter would be over in minutes and there would be no need for that trio to get involved.

"Is everyone in position?" Zeke asked and Wes nodded.

"All set," he replied, scrubbing at his nose, "Ryan and Eddie have got the left flank covered while Coop and Scott are watching the right side. We've got things secured here on the north so the only way they can run is south into the bloody trees and God knows what else. Ryan is waiting for your signal, once you give it he'll fire the first shot and we'll take these buggers apart." A grin split Wesley's dirty face. "We've got these bastards boxed in tighter than my father's waistline, Zeke. We'll get Rachel back in no time, you'll see."

Encouraging words but Zeke was not so certain he could agree. His plan was for a quick surprise attack, box the B.O.N.E.S. troopers in and then pick them off before they knew where all the bullets were coming from. That was the simple version of the plan anyway – take the cleaners out with potshots from behind cover then move in and nab Rachel – but, as with al things in Ezekiel Wilcott's life, there were complications.

The foremost of these was the fact that one of his bunch was an insider, possibly working for the enemy they were about to engage. That meant no one under his command could be trusted to fire if left to his lonesome – hence the pairs. Coop and Scott would watch each other while Eddie kept an eye on Pierce. If this mole was interested in maintaining his cover then he'd have to shoot when Zeke gave the word or else be called down. Wesley, the lieutenant would watch himself. He hated himself for doubting the loyalties of a man who had been his friend – his brother – for decades but Zeke had learned that trust was an expensive, not to mention dangerous, luxury to afford in Raccoon City. Gregory Burke had taught him that.

The second problem was timing. Every shot had to be fast and precise. If anyone hesitated, if anyone missed their bulls-eye then things would go from bad to extremely shitty in the blink of an eye. A moment's hesitation could cost Rachel Parker her life.

Zeke stamped the negative thoughts from his mind and ground them beneath his boot. Whatever happened would happen. It was time to save an innocent woman and send a pack of murderers to their graves. _I won't hesitate. I have a promise to keep. _

"Let's do this." Zeke said, reaching up with one hand to lower the night vision goggles strapped around his forehead.

Wesley nodded without a word before pulling his own set of goggles down as well, pressing the stock of his weapon to his shoulder. Shank lacked a pair of NVGs but claimed he could see just as well in the night as he could in the light of day – better even if one could believe it. It was a small matter though, Zeke already knew that the majority of the shooting would be done by the Rangers but Shank wanted revenge and the lieutenant felt he had a right to it. They _all _had a right to vengeance this night.

Pressing his lips together, Zeke locked his elbows and slow his breathing. He centered the sight of his M4 on the head of the man holding the map. Maybe he _had _taken a handful of rounds center-mass and survived but Zeke highly doubted the man would be looking so fit with a .223 jammed in his forehead. The lieutenant began to whistle, humming the musical cry of a blue jay – a bird that had no business singing at this hour, in this part of the country.

The B.O.N.E.S. soldiers raised their weapons at the sound of the bird call, heads swiveling about but Zeke cut the tune short before any could pinpoint its source, settling back in on his target. _Slow your breathing, keep your hands steady, don't over think. _He told him self, going through the motions he had learned back in boot camp. He could not afford to throw off his shot now, not with Rachel's neck on the chopping block. _Keep your eye on the target. Listen to your heart. There's nothing but your heartbeat, no noise except its own. _Zeke listened and all that existed was the rhythmic _thump-thump _of blood in his ears.

Briefly, he wondered if it was dawning on any of the Umbrella thugs that they were dead, trapped in an ambush with over half a dozen men lying in the grass pointing weapons at them. They'd all be dead soon, Zeke knew, it would only take Pierce a moment to hear the bird call and another to line up his shot.

Pierce would be the one to start the slaughter, all the chips rested on his bullet finding its mark but it would. Pierce never missed and Eddie was there to watch him besides. He never missed, he was ice and stone and he – the crack of the Remington tore a hole through the night, punctuated by a bolt of lightning and a blast of thunder.

One of the B.O.N.E.S. troopers screamed and hit the ground, clutching at his shoulder as another pulled him to safety behind the cover of a tree. The remaining soldiers dove behind rocks and the thick trunks of oaks, firing indiscriminately into the surrounding forest, tearing up a screen of dirt and wood chunks. Zeke lay gaping, unable to believe his eyes: Ryan Pierce missed. He missed.

"Hold your fire!" The lieutenant shouted before anyone could lay a finger on the trigger of their weapon. Wesley cursed and Shank did the same but this was more important than fulfilling a vendetta. If they opened up now odds were it was far more likely they would hit Rachel – left lying helplessly in the open – than a foe. "Hold your fucking fire!" Zeke added under his breath, "Goddamn it, Ryan Pierce!"

"Bloody hell," Wesley muttered, his voice dripping with frustration, "I don't suppose we've got a Plan B tucked up our trousers now do we?"

"Maybe." Zeke replied after a moment's thought. He did have a back up strategy but it was risky. Once again it all depended on how gullible the B.O.N.E.S. commander was feeling and Zeke doubted that was very much with one of his men injured. Then again, a similar ploy had worked once before and his father had forever been fond of the saying that if it wasn't broken don't fix it.

_Fortune favors the bold. _Another old saying but Zeke had discovered that he was hardly fortune's favorite person these last few nights. _Face it you're out of options and running out of time. You either do something now or wait for the nuke to hit and make the choice for you. So, what's it going to be lieutenant? _

"I've got an idea." Zeke whispered.

"Is it a _good _idea?" Wesley whispered back.

"It's an idea at least." Zeke shrugged. "Here's what we're going to do…"

Within moments Wesley was running down the line, moving as swiftly and silently as a ghost while passing the message from ear to ear. As he moved along, Zeke called out – not to his own men but the B.O.N.E.S. troopers – swearing that when this was all over he would route out the rat in his unit and grind them to dust beneath his heel.

_Pierce, _the name burned in Zeke's mind hotter than the sun and he discovered that he was grinding his teeth together so hard they threatened to shatter. Rachel was still out there weeping, bleeding, dying all because the supposed _sharpshooter _had missed. If Ryan Pierce playing at being a spy then Zeke would hang the man by his bootstraps and make him howl. Rachel was still out there because he had missed. Maybe Zeke would make the man howl even if he was not guilty.

Page Break ----------

"This son of a bitch just does _not _know when to stay dead!" Rico muttered to himself, crouching behind the trunk of a moss covered oak. Mick lay sprawled on the ground with a hole the size of an acorn through his right shoulder. He had one hand pressed over the wound but was still losing blood at an alarming rate. "Count yourself lucky, Mick, if you hadn't bent down to re-tie your boots that shot would have opened your head up like a Kinder Surprise egg."

"Christ." Was all the Irishman could bring himself to moan in response and Rich sighed. He liked Mick but the man had never really had much of a sense of humor.

_Ironic though, _Rico thought, slapping a fresh clip into his AK, _the first guy to get hurt all night and it's my medic. Funny but I'm not laughing. Those bastards may have survived being blown to bits twice but now they're just pushing their luck. _

It had to be the Rangers out there – no one else would have been able to find their tracks let alone sneak up and launch a surprise attack. Granted whatever advantage the Americans had thanks to surprise was gone now. Rico's men were well spread out and behind cover. No one would be able to approach without leaving very well ventilated.

"This is Lieutenant Wilcott of the United States Army Rangers!" An authoritative male voice called from deep in the woods, seeming to echo in all directions as thunder crashed and lightning blazed in the sky. "I'd like to speak with whoever is in charge of your unit!"

Rico could hardly believe his ears, thinking that the raging rainstorm must have caused him to misunderstand. First the man was taking potshots at him and now he wanted to _talk_? Major Da Silva smelled something fishy – and rotten fish at that.

"This is Major Rico Da Silva." He hollered back, thinking it best to keep the Ranger talking so that he might draw a bead on his position – no easy task in this weather. _So much for being quiet. _"It's nice to meet you, lieutenant, I'd hate for you to die without knowing who killed you!"

Beside him, Mick groaned something unintelligible and Rico felt his hate for the man – this Lieutenant Wilcott – rise. He really did like Mick Murphy – as much as one hired gun could like another anyway – they had been together since Rico had been given a command. The Irishman was the closest thing he had to a friend and this hillbilly had tried to kill him – tried to kill them all. It would have been better for Wilcott and his rabble to have died when Saint Jude's went up, now Rico would have to grant the man a rather painful end for his transgression.

"I'd like to propose a trade, major." Wilcott shouted from the brush, a peal of thunder washing away his words a moment later. They came from the north somewhere but from how far back?

_A trade? _Was the man actually serious? The lieutenant had to be mad to propose that. Maybe he had misjudged this Wilcott as a brilliant survivalist when he was just a lunatic who had been unnaturally lucky so far.

"What makes you think I want to cut a deal with you?" Rico taunted. "You hurt one of my boy scouts and no one takes a shot at one of my boy scouts and gets to walk away with all their pieces in place!" _Keep him talking. _

"Let me assure you, Major Da Silva, that my men have you surrounded." Wilcott said above the howling wind and pounding rain. Yes, he was definitely to the north, back maybe thirty meters. "We have you and your men boxed in from all sides, major. It's a stalemate. Either we talk about a trade off or wait for whatever is hoping around these treetops to make an appearance. It's your call."

"Fuck him." Mick said, awkwardly trying to wrap a bandage with one hand around his wounded shoulder, his med kit lying in the grass beside him. "The bloody swine is bluffing. Give him nothing, major!"

A powerful thing to assume coming from a man who was bleeding as profusely as Mick but the man was Irish and as such had a tendency to think with his temper rather than his head. The medic was a good enough soldier but most definitely not leadership material. Keeping his emotions cool, his thoughts focused, Rico began to mull through his options, formulating and dismissing possibilities at near-light speed.

_We could rush them head on, they'd never expect that but what if Wilcott is telling the truth after all and we're surrounded? They'd cut us down before we got to our feet. So I keep him talking while Boris and Foller flank him – no – I'm still not sure of his exact position. Then we don't fight at all, we slip away into the bush – and have to contend with Umbrella's playthings instead. _

That left the B.O.N.E.S. commander with only one more choice and he did not care for it at all. Whatever the company had done to Smith after the incident it had made the man bulletproof – and Rico did not care to find out what else. He could always have the…_thing_ – Smith was no longer a man – carve a path through the hillbilly's Rangers if not for the fact that Smith only took orders from Smith and he seemed quite content to just kneel behind that boulder with Petrovsky. Cripes, the idiot didn't even have a weapon drawn!

"What can I say, lieutenant," Rico shouted back with a rueful laugh, "you've got my balls in a juicer. All right, let's talk deal. What do you have exactly that I want?"

"A doctor," he replied, a fork of lightning knifing through the crowds, "his name is Greg Burke and he works for the same employer as you do. He said he was sent here to manage the Raccoon Project."

Rico nodded to himself. He recalled his brief…meeting…with the doctor back at Saint Jude's only hours ago. He had been an elegant if rumpled looking sort of man with a hooked nose and rigid posture, his hair slowly turning gray. At the time Burke had also been wearing the most terrified expression Rico had ever seen on a human being before. Well, one of the most terrified expressions he had ever seen before anyway. Still, Lieutenant Wilcott seemed to be doing a lot of Burke's speaking for him.

"Not that I don't trust someone who shoots at me from the dark or anything," Rico said, "but would you mind letting me speak with Doctor Burke for a tick?"

"Not until you give me what I want, major." Wilcott answered. "One of your men took one of my people captive back at the hospital. Her name is Rachel Parker, she's the pilot for my unit."

Of course, the girl Smith had taken. So she had name now did she? Rico had nearly forgotten about the young lady after his scuffle with the supervisor, a foolish thing to do. He should have assumed they would come after her if they survived the destruction of Saint Jude's – another thing he should have not thought impossible. This group seemed to have the devil's luck.

Glancing to his right, Rico turned his eyes to where the girl lay in the middle of the clearing. She was soaked from her hair to her heels in the pouring rain, huddled in the fetal position as she wept brokenly into her palms. Rico thought she had adopted the position more out of shame than a desire to be warm. Rodney Foller's attentions could be quite…rough…or so the tales went.

"Fair enough, lieutenant." Rico said, ignoring Mick's startled grunt and the sudden look Smith threw his way. It was about time they learned he was the one in charge after all. "I'll send out one of my boy scouts with the girl once you send over one of yours with Burke."

"I don't think so, major." The Ranger replied quickly. "I'm the one holding all the cards here, major, so you're just going to have to do as I say. I'll deliver Burke _after _Rachel is safely with me. The ball is in your court, Major Da Silva."

The smell of rotten fish grew stronger in Rico's nostrils – something stank. Lieutenant Wilcott was asking for far too much and giving back jack all in return. Was he bluffing, was Doctor Burke even _alive _anymore? Too many questions; too many risks. Rico had already taken one risk that night and the result had nearly placed all their necks in a noose.

"Fool me once, shame on you." Rico whispered to himself. "Fool me twice, shame on me. I don't make the same mistakes twice, lieutenant."

Slowly, carefully, Rico unclipped a grenade from his vest and signaled for the others to do the same. They did so without protest, seeming to read his mind, even Smith. With one hand Rico gestured in the direction they were all to throw then held out three fingers, telling them it would be done on the count of the three. The other B.O.N.E.S. troopers nodded. _Third time's the charm. _

"Sorry, lieutenant," Rico began, bringing one finger in and leaving two extended, "but your price is a little too expensive for my blood." He rolled in a second finger. Pins were pulled from the grenades and arms cocked back ready to throw. The plan was still a gamble but Wilcott would have no clue what was coming and no time to react. Rico brought in his last finger.

_"Skree! Skree!" _

Rico froze, the other men turning to statues at his side, their arms locked in mid-throw. Images of the Prague facility surfaced in his mind, images of the two men who had fallen to the talons of creatures who moved like the wind and struck with deadly precision from the shadows. They were much like shadows themselves and Rico doubted that even if he lived to be one-hundred he would never forget the unmistakable screech of the Hunter.

"Forest Keepers." Smith said from across the way, barely audible above the calamity of the storm and the rising cries of the approaching monstrosities. "Umbrella cross-bred them with chameleon DNA. You could trip over one in this forest and not even know what it was until it was too late."

"How do you know what they are?" Rico demanded angrily. "I can't even see them – hell – I can _barely _hear them above the thunder!"

"They have a distinct…smell, major." Smith replied as cool and straightforward as a computer. Rico suppressed a shudder. He could _smell _them?

"Use your grenades, we're getting the hell out of here!" Rico ordered, tossing his own frag before the others followed suit, the explosives landing in the brush to the north.

There was a streak of lightning but the peal of thunder was swallowed up by the resulting explosion. Columns of fire and dirt sprang up into the air, illuminating the woods in an orange glow for a brief moment before the debris came falling back to the ground in a shower of mud and top soil. There was a loud groan and reverberating crash as one of the oak trees gave way and collapsed.

A small section of the Arklay woods had been blown to kingdom come but Rico wouldn't bet on Lieutenant Wilcott and his bunch having gone up with it. Odds were that he had heard those shrill, inhuman screams too and had thought it best to relocate. Besides it seemed to be the lieutenant's job to harass him at every turn this night and Rico wasn't about to trust to luck that the man was dead. He hoped Wilcott was alive actually he wanted the satisfaction of killing the Ranger for his enjoyment alone.

"Foller, get the girl." Rico said in a rush. "We'll need her if those dip shits are still a – "

A spray of bullets tore into the trunk Rico crouched behind, sending a rain of splinters across his face. Acting on instinct, the major threw himself to the ground and fired in the direction of the shot. Smiling as he was rewarded with a startled grunt of pain, Rico rolled back to his feet, gesturing the others forward.

"Foller, get the girl! Everyone else get your asses in gear!" He shouted as a chorus of gunfire rose in the bushes far behind and feral cries of bloodlust filled the night.

With Smith leading the way and Rico holding up the rear, the B.O.N.E.S. squad surged forward through the brambles and brush. Lightning lit a fire in the sky overhead, the rainfall nearly blinded Rico as he ran. Thunder echoed, men shouted, guns blared and the Forest Keepers shrieked with the thrill of the hunt – the ecstasy of the kill.

Foller's surprised cry from behind Rico made the major halt in his steps, kicking up mud as he skidded to a stop. Whirling, Rico turned to see Rodney flat on his back clutching at his right leg where a ragged hole stood out on his thigh, dripping blood. Not necessarily a lethal wound but certainly a crippling one.

"Major!" Foller cried out, desperately reaching out to Rico with one hand, trying to pull himself forward on his side.

Rico took a step forward – and stopped. Overhead, the canopy quaked as something darted from treetop to treetop, sending down a snow of dead, discolored leaves. Branches creaked and swayed beneath the weight of heavy burdens. Bolts of lightning flared casting light on lean reptilian shapes with flaming crimson eyes and daggers for fingers. They were all over the place, darting from tree to tree with a deadly, liquid grace.

"Please, major!" Foller begged, pulling himself through the mud. "They're coming!"

Rico took one look at Rodney – helpless, unable to walk under his own power and sounding more horrified than seemed possible – then glanced up to the trees teeming with Hunters. Images flashed through his mind of Prague facility, of the two men who lost their heads to shadows with claws – dead before they could even raise a hand in self-defense.

"Sorry, Rod." Rico said before turning tail and chasing after Smith and the rest. Really, the decision was a no brainer and he felt no guilt in it – why should there be any guilt about making the smartest decision available and saving your own neck? Rico Da Silva knew he was no hero anyway and had no desire to be. Heroes had an uncanny knack for getting them selves killed.

"_Major!_" Foller cried out, his voice tight with fear and rage but Rico paid him no mind. The man was an asset just like any of them – a tool for the company to use. You didn't expend any energy or emotion when a tool broke you simply picked up a new one and continued the job. No one would mourn the loss of Rodney Foller – or Rico Da Silva for that matter – so it was of little consequence really. In B.O.N.E.S. you looked out for Number One.

Blocking out Foller's last, terrified screams, Rico dashed into the brush, batting away the vines and branches that tugged at him. All he could think about was putting as much distance between himself and the sounds of battle at his back. The Keepers of the Forest were coming and Rico entertained no ideas of occupying their domain when they came looking for intruders – and a hot meal.

Author's Note: Here's the new update, Readers, look for another one in a week or two. Please review as always, tell me who/what you like/dislike. I know not a whole lot went on in this chapter but it'd be lame to just fast forward to the AMRS with no real conflict along the way so I hope you enjoy all the same. Don't forget to review and I hope that you will continue to stay tuned.


	30. A Handful of Sand

**Chapter 29: A Handful of Sand**

October 2, 1998

11:57 PM

Arklay Forest

"That bastard, that goddamn _bastard_." Foller seethed between clenched teeth as he pulled himself through the wet grass and thick mud on his belly. His leg was sticky and soaked with blood, his boot filling up with the crimson fluid. "Rico-fucking-Da Silva, you stinking _twat!_"

The current circumstances hardly seemed all that fair to the Australian. Moments ago he had been crashing through the brush on his way to the team's last objective, virtually home free and then some bloody bint sent a bullet through his thigh and he was facedown in the muck. His commander had taken one look at him – little more than a fleeting glance – before deciding that abandonment was the wisest course of action and rushed off to save his own tail. Rodney was really quite astounded at how quickly things could go from bad to worse.

The Arklay Forest was a living nightmare now. The woods were practically black as pitch, the only illumination provided by the constant flash of gunfire or the occasional burst of lightning. Rain fell in sheets, churning the ground into a dirty brown soup and obscuring everything two feet in front of Foller's face. Shrill, piercing screams rose above the claps of thunder and burning red eyes moved within the shadows as if the trees themselves had voices to cry out with and eyes to watch.

Foller knew he was dead, knew it as well as he knew his own birthday and again it seemed wholly unfair that he should meet his end wet and crawling through the brush like a crippled animal. Still, he was able to look at the positive side of things as well. At least he would be able to save Rico a choice place in Hell.

_How did it come to this? _Foller wondered, groaning as he inched forward through the snake grass, something stirring the canopy of leaves overhead. _I was supposed to be home free. We were all on our merry way back home. _Then a sudden realization hit the Aussie. _The girl. It's all _her _fault! We were doing just fine until Smith decided to drag her along for the ride. She's a bloody hex; she's a witch! She's evil itself._

Maybe Rodney Foller would die tonight but at least he would not be going alone. He'd take that horrid little chit with him. Foller had already taken her once that night but maybe he would get lucky and still have enough energy for another go once he caught up to her again.

Scanning the woodlands for any sign of the pilot's passage, Foller froze stiff when a tall, lean shape with fiery eyes and gleaming talons landed in the high grass directly in front of him. Foller felt his heart turn to ice, his breath catch in his chest. For a moment, an incredibly long moment, the B.O.N.E.S. trooper thought the sudden cold terror might be enough to kill him all on its own.

The creature was slender and hunchbacked but covered with rippling muscle. To put an exact shape to the beast was nigh impossible; it blended into the night so seamlessly as to become a living shadow. Hellish red eyes, like pure fire, stared through Foller, penetrating flesh and bone to view his soul. A cold, lipless smile twisted the monster's face into a vicious sneer that revealed rows of pearl-colored fangs.

"Fuck." Foller cursed, sweat breaking out across his forehead as he struggled to bring his rifle to bear.  
_Not fair, not fair! _He thought frantically, cocking the bolt back. _I can't die yet, not until that little _bitch _learns her fucking lesson! It's not _bloody _fair!_

With a final, frustrated cry, Foller raised the AK already knowing it was too late. In the time it would take him to steady his aim and pull the trigger the Chameleon would lower its clawed hand and open his skull up like a soup can. He had been dead from the moment the mutant landed in his path and it was _not _fair.

Shrieking at the top of its lungs the Chameleon gave the sprawling Australian a withering, almost outraged look then sprang away into the treetops once more. Foller watched with numb disbelief as the screaming shadowy Hunter darted from branch to branch, heading towards a muzzle flash about forty meters away. He lay there even after the beast had vanished from sight in pursuit of its prey, frozen with fear and incredulity.

It made no sense; it was impossible. No one got that close to a Hunter and didn't come back unless he was in three different pieces. The Chameleon had him dead to rights, why would it give up the meal lying at its feet to chase after another so far away? Why –

Foller's train of thought came to a crashing halt as he caught sight of movement only a few yards to his right. The rustling bushes slowly gave way to a slender, shapely shadow and a bolt of lightning played across the frightened, confused features of a young woman with sandy blonde hair. It was the witch. The _bloody_ witch.

Then, Rodney Foller's mind cleared and everything made sense once more. Only an act of God could have spared him from that Hunter's claws. God wanted him to complete this mission. God wanted that awful woman dead as much as he did. The task was now bigger than Foller could have ever imagined it to be: his mission was holy now, sanctified by God. Maybe Hell wasn't to be his destination after all.

With a grunt, Foller staggered to his feet and drew the K-Bar knife in his boot. This time he would not use the blade merely as a threat to keep the whore civil. She'd be receiving the business end this round. Smiling, Foller crashed into the brush after the witch, suddenly feeling much better about him self. He was still going to die, most assuredly, but at least he'd have some company when he went.

Page Break ----------

_Where is she?_ Zeke thought as another of the springing, red-eyed shadows fell to a lengthy burst from his rifle. _Where the hell are you, Rach? _

The lieutenant had sent the rest of the ragtag party of survivors ahead with Wesley but he couldn't leave without Rachel. It had nothing to do with his personal feelings for the pilot – not entirely – he had simply left behind too many good people already: Curtis Sullivan, William Brown, Tessa Foster and even more. He had left them all behind to die and that made him a killer. A murderer of innocents. No one else would be left behind tonight though, Rachel Parker least of all.

_Which way did she go though? _Zeke wondered, taking a moment to catch his breath and gain his bearings. The storm soaked him from his hair to his toes but the Ranger paid it no mind. Rachel was his only concern, his only thought, now. _Which way did she go? I could have sworn I saw something moving out this way. Maybe it was just another one of those - _ A flicker of movement to his left got Wilcott's feet running again.

Zeke raced forward, only vaguely aware that he was headed north. Wet leaves slapped at his face, branches tore at his clothes and clawed death fell from the sky all about him. The Ranger ducked and dodged and rolled out of harm's way, refusing to allow himself to be distracted for even a moment. Rachel was all that mattered everything else was just background noise. Whatever happened he would not leave her behind. She was his redemption. His salvation.

Zeke ran through the dense woods for what felt like hours, his lungs burning as he strained to keep up with the shadowy blur ten yards ahead of him. Every so often the lieutenant was forced to duck beneath a spiked hand or fire quickly as a pair of glowing crimson eyes reared up at him from out of the darkness. He had no idea what the strange beasts were but he did not particularly care anymore either. Zeke was past the point of surprise now, all there was left to do was grab Rachel and go home. Let the insanity of Raccoon City devourer itself.

"Rachel!" The exhausted Ranger shouted and felt unadulterated joy when the blurry shaped ahead of him skidded to a sudden halt.

Lightning flared in the clouds overhead, a fork of light knifing through the choking blackness. A wave of relief crashed over Zeke as the shadows around the figure were pushed back and Rachel Parker stood before him. She was wet and dirty and pale but she was alive. She was alive, she was beautiful and she was smiling softly at him.

"Zeke." Rachel said, just loudly enough for him to hear. It was almost as if she sighed his name, releasing all the grief and pain and fear festering in her heart with that one word. Slowly, unsteadily, she took a limping step towards him.

Again, brilliant blue lightning cut a path through the sky overhead and Zeke felt his heart freeze. Rising from the snake grass behind Rachel was a figure clad all in black, nearly indistinguishable from the night itself if not for the bright red goggles of a gas mask. Just before the lightning faded, casting everything back into darkness, its glow played across the blade of a long knife clenched in the figure's hand, striking on a downward arch for the oblivious woman's back.

"_NO!" _Zeke screamed, propelling himself forward but knowing it was too late already. There was the sickening wet crunch of flesh being rent and then Rachel's anguished cry followed by the sound of something heavy sliding to the dirt floor.

Zeke came upon the masked man – one of the Umbrella B.O.N.E.S. troopers certainly – as Rachel's body settled to the ground, a gaping wound right where her kidney was located. The startled trooper whirled to face this new threat but proved too slow and the lieutenant fell upon Rachel's attacker with all the wrath of a hurricane. Together they stumbled to the ground, rolling through the mud as they punched and kicked at one another savagely, scraping for every bit of advantage in the battle for control of the knife dripping with Rachel's blood.

Zeke grunted and cursed as he wrestled with the Umbrella thug, all sense of rationality lost to an animalistic bloodlust as the fight dragged on. This man had stabbed Rachel – _murdered her _– and now Zeke was going to return the favor. It was as simple as that in the lieutenant's mind. This man _would _die, this man _had _to die. He would tear his throat out with his own teeth if he had to but Rachel's killer _would _bleed. He _would _die here in the mud like a wild beast.

Even with vengeance lending him strength the Umbrella soldier still had him outmatched through pure physical power and gained the upper hand after a few minutes struggle. He rolled Zeke onto his back and pressed one knee into the Ranger's chest. The knife came down quickly, giving the lieutenant only a second to wrap both hands firmly around his opponent's wrist and pause the downward stroke. The tip of the blade halted an inch from Zeke's wide eyeball.

"Give it up mate." The trooper encouraged in a thick Australian accent, his hand shaking with the exertion of trying to carve Zeke a new orifice. "Make it easy on yourself."

"Go to hell." Zeke spat back, ignoring the B.O.N.E.S. soldier's laughter, his face turning red as his own hands began to tremble.

_Too strong, he's too damn strong. _The words sounded rushed and desperate in his mind and Zeke felt shame well up in his heart: Shame at being afraid to die even now; shame at being unable to avenge Rachel. Shame at being unable to save her. Could he not save just one life this night?

His grip beginning to break, Zeke caught sight of something just on the edge of his vision. Standing out on his attacker's thigh like the twisted imitation of a flower blossom was a ragged puncture wound, still dripping blood. Without another moment's hesitation, Zeke brought his boot up and drove the heel mercilessly into the deep gash, eliciting a howl of pain from the Umbrella trooper. The hand wrapped around the knife went suddenly slack and the Ranger tore the blade from his hand.

_He killed Rachel. _The thought was cold and hollow. Zeke sank the knife up to its hilt in the side of the Aussie's neck, blood spurting like a fountain as he severed the jugular vein. _He murdered her. _Tears burning in his eyes, Zeke slid the steel deeper into his choking victim's throat. _You loved her. _Sobbing, Zeke pulled the knife free and drove it home again. And again. _He murdered the woman you _loved! Again and again he stabbed, unable to hear the Australian's gurgling above the sound of his own bitter weeping.

Finally, the handle became too slippery with blood and gristle to hold and as it tumbled from the Ranger's quivering fingers, Zeke snapped back to his senses. It was much like waking from a dream, his mind seemed covered in a dense, murky fog and memory was a chilly and distant thing. He felt wetness on his face and pressed a hand to his cheek. It came away stained with blood though he could not recall why. He was crouched over a body dressed all in black that lay twitching before him, the neck little more than a tattered hole of exposed tendons and dripping tissue. It all seemed surreal, as if it were happening to another person and Zeke was merely observing, his mind somehow removed from his body.

There was a groan behind him, soft and feminine, and the lieutenant turned to see Rachel sprawled on her back, a trickle of blood seeping steadily from the corner of her mouth. She was as pale as fresh fallen snow, tears glittering in her soft eyes, making them sparkle like crystals in the dim moonlight. Choking back a sob, Zeke gathered the girl tenderly into his lap, smoothing back her long hair. Her skin was cold beneath his fingers, very cold and when she looked up at him with those wide eyes that could capture and hold a man as if he were encased in amber, it was through a mask of pain.

"Don't move," he told her, not noticing how badly his voice broke with each word, "just lie still now. I've got you. Just lay still."

"I'm…sorry, Zeke." Rachel said weakly with desperation in her eyes, clutching his hand securely in her own, holding on with such force that it seemed his grip was the only thing keeping her in this world. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't talk," he replied softly, brushing more hair out of her eyes, "I'll think of something. Just – just lay still and give me a second to think. I'll get us out of here."

"I guess…things don't always work out the way you plan them." Rachel said with a wan smile, coughing lightly. "I figured that when we got home…I'd make you take me out dancing – and for dinner too, of course." She swallowed thickly, a blood bubble bursting on her lip. "You're still a little older than I usually go for…but…at least you've got a good head on your shoulders – even if it's a bit thick and not all that pretty." She laughed then, an exhausted, rueful laugh.

"Please, Rachel, don't talk anymore." Zeke begged, tears streaming unchecked down his cheeks. How had it come to this; how was it possible? How could Rachel seem suddenly so frail and fragile, like a handful of sand seeping steadily through his fingers? It was worse than the darkest of dreams. "I'll get you out of here, I promise."

"Too late for that, Zeke." Rachel protested, struggling to shake her head. "I'm dying…I've been dying ever since the chopper went down."

"No," the word sounded very tiny, very small, as it escaped his lips. "I'm going to save you."

"You can't save everyone, Zeke." Her fingers tightened around his hand suddenly, pulling him in with an unusual strength. Rachel fixed the lieutenant with a look of profound resolve and when she spoke she did so slowly, driving each word into his mind like a railroad spike. "You…can't…save…everyone."

From somewhere in the darkness of the forest a shrill, inhuman scream echoed between the trees. It was joined a moment later by a second and then a third. On and on the screaming went until Zeke lost count of all the voices. Looking around anxiously, he let one hand stray from Rachel's cool cheek to the grip of his rifle.

"You have to…go now." She said, barely above a whisper.

"No," Zeke choked the word out, "I'm not leaving you here. If they want you then they'll have to take me too."

"Don't be stupid," she scowled irritably, "the others need…you now. Go on." Rachel sighed heavily, her eyelids fluttering shut. "Get out…of here." Gently, she brushed his grizzled chin with her palm. "Go…go for me."

A crushed, broken sob wracked Zeke's body as he bent forward to press his lips gently against Rachel's damp forehead. "I love you," he murmured quietly, tasting the salt of his tears mingled with that of Rachel's sweat.

"You know," she said, that breakable grin blooming on her face once more as her head lolled to one side, "I'm really going to regret never…getting that dance with you." She exhaled once and her chest did not rise again.

_It's your fault. _The dry voice in the back of Zeke's head told him as he lowered Rachel's head to the earth gingerly. _She's dead because of you. She had faith in you – and now she's dead. She was counting on you, Zeke, and you let her down. They were all counting on you – Sam and Shots and Slugger – and they're dead because of it too. You're a murderer, Lieutenant Wilcott, nothing more. You _are _nothing. _

A numbness, unlike anything he had ever experienced before settled over Zeke as he scooped up the M-4 and rose to his feet. It was as if his entire body, every fiber of his being, was suddenly infused with ice and granite. Again he was filled with the sense of wandering in a dream, aware of the events around him but viewing them with a casual indifference as if they were happening to another. His body was on autopilot and he was merely an observer.

Then, abruptly, the ice filled his veins turned to water as the flames of a passionate rage welled up inside him. Rachel Parker was dead. Curtis Sullivan was dead. Sam Brocket was dead. How many more would he have to watch _die _before the night was through? How much longer would he be forced to watch good men and women be cut down by nameless terrors lurking in the dark and a unit of mercenaries hired to clean up the consequences of a company's greed? Did God find something amusing, Zeke wondered, in watching his friends struggle and suffer and die?

Hate burned in Zeke's heart with such intensity that it threatened to reduce him to char. The time for grief and regret could come later, if he survived the hell of Raccoon City. Now was the time for vengeance and the shrieking, crimson-eyed shadows would be the first recipients of Ezekiel Wilcott's fury.

"Come on!" Zeke bellowed, face red and tear-streaked as he raised the M-4 to his shoulder. "Come on you mutant fucking _apes_! Come and fucking kill me!"

A dark, hunchbacked blur stirred in the bushes to his right and Zeke whirled, squeezing the trigger. There was a short screech followed by the sound of something heavy crashing to the ground. Red eyes pierced the darkness ahead of the lieutenant and again he opened fire, punching a hole through one of the glowing orbs. Claws raked through the air to his left and Zeke felt warm blood splash his face as he sent three rounds into his shadowy assailant's face. On and on they came shrieking as they plowed through the thick brush, a virtual tide of death incarnate.

Zeke dropped four more of the nearly shapeless creatures before his rifle clicked empty and he was forced to retreat. Though he was covered in the oil black fluid that pumped through the beasts' bodies it still was not enough. The lieutenant's mind cried out for him to do more violence, to spill more blood in Rachel's name and the names of all those who had perished in this Godforsaken place. Only through destruction could the sin of their deaths be atoned for; only revenge would slake the thirst of his grief.

_Not now though, _Zeke though as he threw away the empty M-4 and darted between the trees as fast as his legs would carry him, _later but I have other responsibilities now. First, I regroup with the others at the stream and get them out of here then…then I'll burn the whole goddamn world if I have to, to make these bastards pay for everything they've done here. Every last fucking one of them. _

Forward, Zeke ran through the dark woods praying with heart and soul that if anyone else had to die this night then it would be him. Let his blood be shed to amuse God for a change.

Page Break ----------

"Something's wrong," Coop said from beside Wesley, "the L.T. should have been back by now."

"Just give him another minute." The Brit replied, surveying the surrounding tree line intently from the opposite bank of the rushing stream they had just crossed. _Don't keep me waiting, Zeke, you know patience just isn't a word I understand all too well. _

The woods on the other side of the stream were quiet for the most part, save for the occasional rustling of leaves and snapping of branches but the red-eyed monsters prowling in its depths were no longer interested in harassing Wesley's band. Apparently after seeing fifteen or so of their siblings fall to the party of dirty survivors the skulking beasts had learned to be wary of firearms. It was a slightly scary thought, that such seemingly mindless creatures could possess the capability for learning. Right then though Wesley was only grateful that nothing was trying to have him for its midnight snack.

At least they were still altogether, Wes thought as he glanced at the assembly behind him. Skip and Officer Ward had collapsed onto their backs after charging across the stream and now lay red-faced and panting hard, thoroughly exhausted by the scrambling dash. Eddie Gabbor and the two rough-necked bikers crouched not far away, hands on their knees also struggling to pull in air while Eddie grumbled for the hundredth time about his luck. Scott held one edge of the perimeter while Ryan and Coop watched the other. Wesley stood ankle-deep in the rapids of the stream, straining to see any sign of his friend.

Concern for Zeke mounted in the sergeant as the woods maintained their silent vigil. If he didn't show up soon Wesley would be forced to move on. It was less than seven hours before a rather nuclear powered sunrise turned Raccoon City into a crater and they still had a long way to go. It had been a fool thing to let Zeke run off on his own like that but he _was _the lieutenant after all and stubborn as a mule with lead feet as well. If Ezekiel Wilcott possessed even a single shred of good sense then Wesley would eat his boots.

Then he saw him and a wide grin split the sergeant's face. Zeke came stumbling through the edge of the tree line, without his rifle and running fast. Greasy, reddish-black stains covered the front of his vest but at least he was alive – and alone. So elated was he at the sight of his friend alive and whole that Wesley hadn't noticed Rachel's absence at first. The whole purpose of Zeke going off on his own had been to recover the girl, if she wasn't with him then…

"She's dead, Wes." Zeke said as he splashed across the stream and Wesley felt his face fall, his heart clench. "They killed her."

There was a deep, haunted look in the lieutenant's eyes and Wes could only guess at the magnitude of the battle raging inside his companion. He knew how strong Zeke's feelings had been for the spitfire little pilot. She was dead now though and while that thought made Wesley's stomach tighten with anguish it had to be a thousand times worse for the lieutenant. He had been in command when Rachel died and the guilt that went along with such a realization was more than the Brit was willing to guess at.

"Zeke, I'm so sorry. I know how much she meant…" Wesley trailed off. The haunted look covering his friend's face dissolved as his eyes passed across Ryan Pierce. Fire filled his gaze, a scorching inferno of anger and hatred.

"All because _you _missed!" Zeke seethed and Ryan looked up, his face unreadable as always. "Tell me something, Pierce. How does a veteran sniper miss a shot like that? You had a clear line of sight so _how _did you _miss_? You son of a bitch…Rachel would still be alive if it wasn't for your fuck-up!" Without any warning, Zeke seized the other man and proceeded to strangle him with an animalistic ferocity. "You're working for _them_ aren't you! _You're _the fucking plant! Tell me the truth, _goddamn you!" _

"Lieutenant!" Wesley and Coop cried in unison, grabbing Zeke roughly about the shoulders, desperately trying to break his hold on the gagging sharpshooter's neck.

Chaos ensued. Zeke screamed curses and accusations as the two Rangers finally managed to pry his hands apart, fighting like a cornered fox to weave his way out of their hold. All Pierce could do was cough and splutter as Skip, Kathryn, Eddie and the two Psycho's pulled him away from the raving lieutenant. Suddenly everyone was yelling and thrusting fingers under each other's noses, apparently deaf to Wesley's cries for order. Finally, after what seemed like hours, Ryan's voice rose above the endless din.

"My target moved!" He shouted, rubbing his throat absently. "I had a shot but he moved at the last second, sir. It wasn't my fault! I'd _never _try and do anything to get Rachel hurt, you have to know that, lieutenant." The last was delivered almost as a plea.

Judging by the expression Zeke's face he certainly did not seem to. Scowling, he pushed his way back into Pierce's face. "Maybe," he said through clenched teeth, his eyes blazing, "but we'll see Pierce. I'm watching you though and if you make one more convenient little screw up then, so help me, I will come down on you with all the force of a shitstorm straight out of – "

"Uh, guys," Skip said, scratching at the back of his neck as he always seemed to do when agitated. "I don't mean to uh interrupt or anything but uh I was wondering…" he glanced nervously over either shoulder before turning back again, "…did you guys see where Sergeant Owens went to? It looks like he just up and ran off."

Author's Note: I'm back! I apologize for the prolonged hiatus and short chapter but Three Days In A Nightmare is back up and running again. I hope my loyal readers will stay tuned and check out this new edition. Please read and review as always and expect another update soon.


	31. The Mole

**Chapter 30: The Mole**

October 3, 1998

2:00 AM

Arklay Mountains

Rico noticed with a cool kind of indifference that the entrance to the Arklay Mountain Research Station was the product of more White Umbrella paranoid cloak and dagger. The brass had gone to such an extent to hide the facility that they set the front entrance directly into the cliff face itself. Of course, the gate would have been impossible to find for anyone lacking a map with the exact location marked on it but fortunately such was not the case for the B.O.N.E.S. team and after a tiring run through the steep, snaking paths of the Arklay Mountains, Smith called for everyone to halt.

It looked just like any other part of the Arklay Mountains – rocky, dusty and gray. The thin, unassuming crack running down the middle of the high stone wall would have been invisible to any eye not actively looking for it but Smith traced its length up and down twice without error. After a moment's inspection of the doorway hidden deep in the twisting mountain passes Smith dropped to one knee and brushed aside a dense covering of sand and gravel to reveal a pinhole-sized electrical jack set into the base of the rock.

"It's really pretty amazing how one company can invent a virus that turns people into walking killing machines and can come up with technology like _that_," Rico gestured to the jack with the barrel of his rifle, "and yet we still can't find something more sophisticated than toilet paper when it comes to managing personal hygiene."

"You _do _enjoy hearing yourself speak, don't you major?" Smith said quietly, digging around in his rucksack before pulling out the slender, handheld computer he had first used to track his spy with back at Saint Jude's.

"Just avoiding an awkward silence." Rico shrugged. "That the key to this fine establishment?" Again, he gestured to the forty-foot high slab of stone facing them.

"Nothing gets by you, does it, major?" Smith replied in that smugly superior tone that always made Rico suspect the supervisor was grinning from behind his gas mask.

_Well, he can smile until his lips fall off so long as he gets us out of this fiasco in one piece. _Rico watched with anxious anticipation as Smith removed an electrical adapter from his pack, plugging one end into the top of the computer and the other into the newly exposed jack. The soft sound of clicking keys filled Rico's ears as Smith's fingers flew across the numerical pad set into the device's handle and the major found himself on the edge of despondency, ready to let his mind drift off into space and wait for Smith to crack the door – when a new sound brought him sharply back to reality with a muffled curse.

Rico spun towards the direction of the noise – falling rocks, boots scrapping through dirt – and opened fire as one of the Army Rangers came around the corner to his right. With a startled yelp, the soldier – a plain-looking man of average height with a tactical radio strapped to his back – threw himself back behind the boulder he had just rounded. The bullets sent tufts of dust up into the sky as they pounded uselessly into solid stone and Rico cursed more loudly this time, one hand fumbling for a fresh clip. Just when he had a new magazine in hand, something struck the major hard in the side of the neck and removed his feet from the ground. When the stars quit bursting before his eyes Rico was not the least bit surprised to find himself on his back, starring up at Smith.

"Idiot!" Smith admonished. "You could have killed him you brainless monkey!"

"Well," Rico shot back harshly, "I did think that was the general idea. Care to tell me what the hell is going on _now?_"

Smith merely grunted and muttered something under his breath. "If it's all the same to you, major. I'd rather not waste my breath." He turned and nodded towards Petrovsky. "Help him up."

Boris moved to assist the major back to his feet but Rico slapped the Russian's hands away. He could still stand up under his own power – no thanks to Smith though. Pressing one hand to his neck – it felt a great deal as if someone had struck him several times in the same spot with a sack of oranges – Rico used the other one to dust off the front of his vest, watching with interest as Smith paced over to where the Ranger had dared to duck his head out. Rico scowled venomously at the pair of them.

"You can come out now, Sergeant Owens," Smith said to the pale-faced soldier, "Major Da Silva has been…domesticated."

Rico snorted disdainfully, a sudden realization begging to take hold. This man – this Sergeant Owens – was Smith's agent, the mole in the Ranger unit. It was the only logical explanation for the supervisor's…rude…behavior when Rico had tried to drop the fellow. While he did feel a slight bit sheepish for nearly executing a friendly, Rico was far more upset with Smith. If the spook had told them who to look out for in the first place then maybe a mistake like that would never have occurred. Oh no though, that just was not Smith's style.

"So, he's your rat huh?" Rico said, not caring if Owens or Smith found his tone abrupt. "Maybe now would be the time to tell us boy scouts just what kind of information your carrying and why exactly we've been risking our necks for two fucking day s to get a hold of it?"

Despite all the blood and grit caked to Owens' face like a second skin, Rico could plainly see the narrowing of his eyes and the tightening of his lips. "I prefer the term 'professional' to 'rat'," Owens said, "and, secondly, you can go fuck yourself. Next time you decide to shoot me you better not miss or I'll give you an enema with that AK you're holding."

"You've got a big mouth, maybe I should see if I can fit my fist down it?" Rico challenged and took a step forward but was shoved back curtly by Smith.

"I'm sure watching the two of you beat one another into the ground would be entertaining to say the least," Smith said smoothly, "but it will have to wait until we get back. The major did raise a good question – for once – though. Do you have the data on Operation Puppet Master, sergeant?"

"Yes sir." Owens responded with a final, menacing look for Rico. The mole dropped to his knees, shrugged off the bulky radio and began to rifle through his rucksack. After a moment or so he handed a navy blue laptop into Smith's outstretched fingers.

"Operation Puppet Master?" Rico asked, raising an eyebrow. "Now, I realize that being a grunt means not getting all the facts but I sincerely dislike it when my boy scouts and I are left out of the loop altogether and please do _not _give me that 'need to know basis' crap again, if you don't mind."

Owens glared at the major, his upper lip curling back into a rictus snarl. He glanced in Smith's direction with askance written across his face and the supervisor shrugged casually, popping open the laptop and focusing his attention on the glowing screen. Still looking as if he were contemplating murder, Owens turned back to Rico – was he holding his rifle a little tighter now? Rico could not be sure.

"I was ordered to collect combat data on the T-carriers within Raccoon City." Owens explained. "I was supposed to see how well an elite military unit – the Army Rangers – and the local emergency response forces could hold up against an outbreak of this size. All my findings are in that computer and after everything I've seen tonight I sure as shit better get that goddamn bonus they promised me."

"You're with B.O.N.E.S.?" Mick asked skeptically.

"Nah," Owens replied with a grim, sour little smile, "I'm more what you'd call a freelancer. Your bosses set up my missions, create my background and fill my bank account. I just do all the legwork. No connection to your employers that way."

"You must have a good insurance policy," Rico observed dryly. "You must have some coverage or no brains to blow your own helicopter out of the sky – while riding in it."

"And three others." Owens grinned, showing too many teeth for Rico's comfort.

"This all seems to be in order." Smith said, snapping the laptop shut and sliding it into his bag. "Where's the rest of your unit, sergeant? Dead?"

"No," Owens said with a grimace and a shake of his head. "I ditched them back a ways but it won't be long before they pick up my trail. I covered my tracks well but they've got a guy with them that could find a grain of sand in a snowstorm. Zeke'll be confused at first too – he's near the breaking point now – but he's still smarter than – "

A burst of gunfire sailing over their heads snapped Owens' mouth shut and sent Rico scampering through the dirt in search of cover. The major found it quickly, along with the rest of his team, in the form of a granite ridge rising on a steep incline over the escarpment below. The wall behind which they hid was positioned on a bit of a slope and open on the right end but Rico would take what he could get.

"We've been here before." Rico grumbled, throwing a look to where Owens and Smith crouched behind a sun-bleached boulder to the left. Smith's handheld computer, the key to their freedom and a handsome paycheck lay just out of reach. Swearing, Rico ducked his head lower as another chorus of rounds whizzed past his cheek and ear.

"Bang up job on losing your friends," Mick spat acidly at the mole from beside Rico, "bloody brilliant."

"I told you they could track." Owens fired back. "Why don't you shut your holes and use those two brain cells rattling around upstairs to come up with a fucking plan?"

"You're the professional." Rico said with a shrug and nearly giggled with delight at the look that bloomed across the mole's face.

"Lay cover fire," Smith ordered, cold as ice even with hot lead streaking through the air, "they're in the pass below us. Keep them pinned down, I'm going to try and get to the keypad."

Not having any better ideas at the time, Rico nodded to his men. Together they sprang up over the edge of the rock slab and fired into the passage below, dust forming a thick froth as stones were chewed to powder by the endless stream of automatic fire. Out of the corner of his eye Major Da Silva saw Smith scrambling through the gravel for the small computer and Rico found himself wishing his supervisor luck and speed for once. To die here, so close to the end of the mission, so close to walking away smelling like daisies, seemed morally incorrect.

_I'll make it out of here._ Rico swore to himself, switching clips as Sven laid down suppressive fire with his M-60. _I'll make it out of here and then I'm done. I'm retired. I'm going off the grid and disappearing. Let Umbrella find some other goon to clean up their messes and get cut to bits by their playthings – I'm through with this bullshit. I've still got friends in Madrid – I can disappear. I _will _disappear. _

Rico decided to make it a promise – that once he was out of Raccoon he'd hop on a flight to Madrid and hit his cousin up. Ramon owed him a favor and fake records were his specialty besides. Yes, it was a promise. Still, despite his conviction the major felt troubled. Throughout his whole life Rico Da Silva had never been all that good at keeping his promises. Even the ones he made to himself.

----------- Page Break ----------

Zeke saw that phase one of his plan was in full swing and working quite well but pulling off the second half would be a great deal more difficult. They were running low on ammunition as it was, everyone's nerves were near the point of snapping and the B.O.N.E.S. troopers had some fairly solid cover. If his team ran out of rounds or the Umbrella thugs spotted his approach then the fat lady would start singing loud enough to bring down the entire Arklay Mountain range. He would just have to trust to luck and move quickly.

So far the lieutenant's luck had held. Shank had been able to follow Owens' hastily concealed tracks – saying that "a one-eyed chimp" could have spotted the broken twigs and boot prints – to the passes winding through the dusty mountain. While Zeke still had yet to see the wayward sergeant he had been able to spot several black clad bodies along the ridge above them with his binoculars. He had nearly laughed with a perverted kind of joy when he noticed the nigh invisible dirt track that looped up around behind the ridge with several dozen feet of sheer rock overhanging it to provide cover. If they could just get through there unnoticed then they could take a bite out of the B.O.N.E.S. squad's flank and leave them reeling.

_Of course, things always seem easier on paper than when they're put into practice, _Zeke reminded himself sourly as he ducked back beneath the ridge with the others as the Umbrella soldiers rained lead down upon them. _Trust to luck. You don't have anything left to lose. _

Maybe he didn't, Zeke thought grimly as he looked around at the wan, dirty faces of the people next to him, but the others certainly did. Eddie Gabbor had only wanted to do his job, to be a cop, to serve the common good and maybe if he survived Raccoon City he would still be given that chance somewhere else – but not if Zeke Wilcott got him killed. Shank and Tech had lost four of their friends in the passing of a night. What would they have left if Zeke made a slip up that cost one or the other his life? Then there was Skip Francis, a frightened young man Zeke had found squatting in an elevator. Faithful, steady, Skip who had tried so hard to keep up and be brave. He had a whole other life to live but would the hand of Death that followed Ezekiel Wilcott reach out to take this boy next?

_And what of your own men, lieutenant?_ The dry, mocking voice that had entered Zeke's mind upon his arrival in Raccoon City asked. _Despite his failings, Pierce has a family – a wife and little girl – would you take him from them as repayment for his blunder in saving Rachel? Do you really think Wesley cares enough about you to throw his life away for the sake of your hunger for vengeance? And Cooper – you hardly even know the man! Would you ask a stranger to die alongside you, Zeke?_

No, he would not but nor would he let the sin of Rachel's death go unpunished. She was dead and that simple, agonizing truth made Zeke's path clear. The promise of revenge fueled the Ranger's heart and set his resolve. He had already taken the life of Rachel's killer, left him bleeding his life out in the forest, but the men who battled them now were just as much at fault. They worked for a company that had not only murdered his Rachel but tens of thousands of others as well all for the sake of greed.

The dead had no voices to protest with, no champions to seek justice on their behalf but soon that would change. Tonight, Ezekiel Wilcott would be their avenger. Tonight, he would become the Hand of Justice and sweep away the wicked into oblivion. The dead were owed their vengeance as much as he was owed his.

"Coop!" Zeke shouted to the dark-skinned Ranger above the crack of bullets kicking up clouds of dust all around them. "How many rounds do you have left?"

"Not enough, boss." Cooper replied dryly after checking his ammo belt. "Maybe enough to hold these bastards down for two or three minutes."

"That should be long enough for me to do what I have to." Zeke said and all heads turned his way. This time the lieutenant felt no discomfort or uncertainty at having so many eyes on him. He only felt cold, numb and distant for Justice was blind and held no emotions. "Wait for a lull in their firing," he told them, "then open up with a wall of suppressive fire. Keep it going until you run empty. I shouldn't be long but every second you can keep them distracted will help." Zeke drew his pistol, fished a silencer from his vest and began to attach it when, from beside him, Skip seized his arm.

"Where are you going?" The young man demanded, doe-eyed, his slender fingers locked in a death grip around the lieutenant's wrist. "You can't leave us, Zeke. We need you to get us through this."

For a moment, the Ranger was flabbergasted, unable to do anything but stare into the young man's wide, fearful eyes. A crack appeared in the icy armor Zeke had wrapped himself in and he felt a flush of warmth for Skip who now gripped his arm as if it were some kind of charm. Earlier that evening he had told Skip he should have been a Ranger to assuage his fears but now Zeke knew it for the truth. Skip Francis was responsible, courageous and loyal almost to a fault. Zeke was proud to be with the boy now and would have been proud to have served with him as well.

_In another life, maybe, _Zeke thought, _but that time isn't now. Right now I'm Justice and I have his work to do. _

"They killed Haag and Shots, Skip," Zeke told the young man, his frosty demeanor restored. Justice could spare feelings for no one – even a friend. "They blew Sam's leg off and stabbed Rachel in the back. I'm going to go and even up the score."

Without wasting another second to allow for protest, Zeke tore his arm from the young man's grip and raced up the narrow path to his right. The passage was thin and lined on both sides by tall rocks but the lieutenant still crouched low, keeping his head down as he moved at a quick walk. Straining his ears the Ranger waited for a break in the clatter of the B.O.N.E.S. group's fire. He needed to wait only a moment for it before the roar of his team's guns moved in to fill the gap of silence. Doubling his pace, Zeke almost paused when he heard the sounds of running footsteps at either side.

Soon Kathryn Ward was keeping pace with him. Her eyes were red and swollen; the product of too little sleep and too much grief but her face was locked in an expression of serious concentration. One thought fueled her whole being now and Zeke ventured a guess at what it was even before she caught him starring and looked his way. There was a fierce, predatory glimmer in her eyes and the way she moved with her Beretta held low.

"You lost Rachel, I lost Sam." She said matter-of-factly, cocking her pistol, face devoid of both fear and hope. "I have a right to this. To see them die."

And so she did. Zeke nodded and together they ran.

Shank and Pierce materialized on the lieutenant's other side a second later. The heavy-set Psycho ran with Haag's rifle clutched tight against his massive chest, teeth bared and snarling deep in his throat like a cornered bulldog. Pierce stalked more than he ran, carrying his silenced Colt held high as silent and deadly as a wraith.

"When you mess with an alley dog's family it bites you in the nuts and doesn't let go." Shank explained when he caught Zeke's eye. "I think it's about time I collected some testicles on behalf of Blaze, Boomer and Shots."

Ryan merely nodded when he noticed Zeke looking his way. The sniper shared no words but let his eyes do all the talking. "For Rachel," they said and so the lieutenant simply returned the nod. Together they would be Justice and make this roving band of killers pay the price for all the lives they and their employers had taken. The cost would be in blood and souls.

At the top of the slope Zeke and the three other vengeance seekers turned the corner and spotted their quarry spread out across the ridge, kneeling behind a row of boulders, periodically rising up to fire a burst down below. Four men in gas masks formed a defensive line along the ridge while a fifth crouched near a steep cliff face a few yards distant typing away madly on what Zeke though to be a mini-disc reader of some kind. Then, at the very end of the ridge-line formation, Zeke's eyes fell across a man in Ranger gear firing down into the passage below where two fellow Rangers, a police officer and two civilians sheltered. Cold, tasteless fury turned to boiling, unfocused hate as Lieutenant Wilcott leveled his Colt handgun with Scott Owens' back.

The shots made no noise save for the softest _puff-puff_ sound but rage clouded Zeke's senses, bloodlust fogged his vision and compromised the lieutenant's aim. Two crimson holes blossomed on Owens' left arm and with a strangled cry the traitor fell onto his back in the dirt. Zeke fired a third round but Owens proved too agile and rolled to the side before the .45 caliber bullet could find its mark.

Stirred by the sound of their mole's shout the B.O.N.E.S. troopers whirled about to face the oncoming ambush. The mercenary closest to Zeke – a hulking figure gripping an M-60 heavy machine gun – managed to raise his weapon before Pierce dropped to one knee and sent a rapid trio of rounds through his neck. As the tall heavy gunner fell away another of the black garbed soldier's rose, bringing his AK to bare and squeezing off three rounds. Shank hisses as two of the shots struck him, one grazing his side while the other tore a strip from his leg. The biker staggered back a step, firing a burst of his own that punched a ragged line across his enemy's stomach. Kathy finished the wounded trooper off with a single shot through one of the gas mask's goggles.

"This way!" The B.O.N.E.S. soldier with the mini-computer called to his remaining fellows before hefting a silver briefcase at his side and thumbing down a key on the handheld device.

A tremor shook the ground, a shockwave rolling through the mountain that was strong enough to dislodge Kathy's footing and send the wounded Shank to his knees with a curse. Wholly convinced that a slumbering giant was awakening beneath their feet, Zeke was still nothing short of awed to watch the cliff face the trooper had been kneeling in front of _split apart. _The wall of slick, smooth stone divided into two perfect halves and slid apart to reveal a gap that was at least forty-feet high if it was a foot. It was easily the largest, most elaborate doorway Zeke had ever seen in his life and must have cost millions to construct.

_The AMRS isn't just stationed _up_ in the mountains, _Zeke realized. _It's built _inside _the damn thing! No wonder Burke said we'd need his help to find it._

The trooper holding the silver case disappeared through the passageway before the tremors even finished subsiding and then his two companions, along with the lying rat Scott Owens, were making a beeline for safety as well. Zeke's entire focus was on the man that had betrayed them all; that had fostered and nurtured Zeke's paranoia to keep him from discovering the truth. He was as much responsible for Rachel's death as anyone else – and perhaps the deaths of Captain Sullivan and all the other Rangers that had perished in the nightmare of Raccoon City. Zeke drew a bead on his two-faced radioman's knee, intending to cripple the traitor but then Owens fired a burst as he ran by and Wilcott was forced to duck and give up the shot.

As Scott vanished through the opening in the mountain side another of the B.O.N.E.S. troopers paused to open fire. Hot pain cut across the top of Zeke's shoulder as one of the assault rifle rounds found him but the lieutenant simply grit his teeth and calmly returned fire. The Umbrella cleaner jerked violently as Zeke's shot caught him in the elbow then fell twitching to the weathered ground, cut down by a hail of lead from Pierce, Shank and Officer Ward.

The only remaining B.O.N.E.S. trooper strafed across the open ground as he made for the AMRS entrance, filling the air with a blanket of molten metal that sent the foursome sprawling in the dirt for cover. Barely half an instant after the final cleaner was through the opening the earth began to heave and quake once more, the towering stone doors sliding closed.

"Like hell you do, Owens." Zeke grunted, pulling himself back to his feet, ignoring the trickle of blood seeping between his fingers as he raced for the rapidly closing doors of the Arklay Mountain Research Station.

"Come on!" Kath cried, darting ahead of Zeke, her eyes ablaze with a strange fanaticism. "They're getting away!"

"The fuck they are!" Shank growled indignantly, clutching his injured side with one hand as he limped along with Sergeant Pierce in tow.

Perhaps three feet of space remained between the two closing halves of the cliff and Zeke felt a wild surge of hope. They were going to make it. They would get inside the AMRS, deal with the backstabbing Owens and his two cronies and then let the others in. From there it was simply a matter of finding Burke's helicopter or the underground trolley and making it outside the blast area.

_I'm going to make him howl. _Zeke though, the promise of revenge so sweet it made him salivate as he ran, pumping his arms for speed. _I'll break both that rat's legs and tell him to dance. I'll hang him from the ceiling by his eyelids. Run fast, Owens, because your time is just about – _

All thoughts of exacting a protracted revenge slowly from the hide of Scott Owens fled Zeke's mind as he caught sight of a round, dark object traveling through the closing gap in the stone wall. It was smooth and black, about the size of a man's fist. Skidding to a halt as he realized what it was, Zeke spread his arms to stop Ryan and Shank but Kathy was already too far ahead of him and the raven-haired officer did not seem to have even noticed the grenade.

"Kathy wait!" Zeke cried, panic clawing viciously at his mind but part of the lieutenant knew it was too late already. The mocking, half-mad part of the Ranger's mind cackled devilishly.

Hearing Zeke's alarmed shout Kathryn halted dead in her tracks – and then she saw the explosive arcing her way. Time slowed as Zeke looked on in wide-eyed horror, helpless to act as the hand grenade kicked up a pall of dust an inch from the policewoman's right foot. Confusion flashed across Kathy's face as she looked down and Zeke wanted to shriek but a deafening thunderclap knocked him and the others from their feet. An impossible heat singed his face.

When the ground ceased to tremble and his ears ceased to ring the lieutenant and his two companions scrambled back to their feet. Deep down, Zeke knew it was irrational to hope but he could not keep from praying that Kathryn was only injured and not dead. What remained of his fragile sanity would surely crack under the burden of having to carry one more death upon its shoulders. Zeke raised his eyes.

A smoking crater, a smoldering shoe and a few scraps of clothing were all the evidence that Officer Kathryn Ward had ever been. The rest of her remains must have been blown clear over the ridgeline. With a strangled noise Zeke collapsed to his knees, the pistol falling from fingers he no longer felt. _You promised me you'd look after her, _This time the voice in Zeke's mind was that of Sam Brocket's, gravely and cold as death, _you promised to take care of her for me. You're a liar Zeke Wilcott. A liar. _

"Holy Merciful Christ." Shank breathed at his back, starring at the steaming black hole where Kathryn had been standing. To Zeke's ears the biker's voice sounded a mile or more distant.

Running footsteps sounded coming up the track as the others raced to rejoin them but by then it no longer mattered. With a grinding, shuddering sigh the two halves of the cliff face sealed themselves up again. Zeke's enemy and his chances at tasting vengeance had once more been robbed from him. The Hand of Justice had failed.

**Author's Note:** I'm back! Boy, it feels like it's been forever. I apologize a thousand times for my prolonged absence but please know, loyal fans and readers, that I am NOT abandoning this story. Some times inspiration rains down upon me and makes a flood and other times there's unfortunately nothing but sunny skies. I will never abandon this work though. I won't set static dates for updates anymore but know they will come as soon as possible and I pray that you will continue to read and review. Your reviews often help to change the weather of my inspiration so please keep them up! Enjoy this installment and look for a new one soon. Thank you.


	32. Loose Ends

**Chapter 31: Loose Ends**

October 3, 1998

2:38 AM

Arklay Mountain Research Station

During his ten-year career as a hired gun Scott Owens had never been shot once. Now that he had been, Scott decided it was an experience he could have done without. At first the wounds had burned like cold fir but now there was no sensation except for a dull, throbbing ache. Blood soaked the mercenary's sleeve and caked his hand in a syrupy crimson filth. Luckily the rounds had gone straight through without damaging or lodging in bone but that still did nothing to soothe Scott's anger – or his nerves.

Suffering the injury had shattered one of Scott's most favorite illusions: that he was invincible. Most individuals in his line of work did it for the payoff but not Scott Owens; he did it for the sheer thrill. To weave deception, to sow mistrust, to dodge death – that was what got Scott off and the money was purely an added incentive. Of course, it was much easier to dance around death when one believed they were impervious to harm. Lieutenant Zeke Wilcott had just taken that luxury away from Scott and he sincerely did not appreciate factors that complicated his ability to get the job done and have a little fun in the process.

_Then again, maybe I should thank him. _Scott thought as he inspected the ragged punctures in his arm, the wounds beginning to clot. _Maybe this will make me sharper. I guess I always knew this business could be hazardous to my health but it was a lot easier to get things done when I didn't have to think about going home in a box. Maybe it was time for a rude awakening though. _

Well, what was past was past and there was nothing for it. Zeke and the rest of the survivors were as good as dead now anyway and even if a nuke was _not _on its way Scott still wouldn't go on some misguided crusade for revenge. Making a mission personal always soured the high Scott received from completing his objectives. Unfortunately Major Da Silva was not able to be as passive aggressive about the current situation.

"I'm going to kill him! I'm going to fucking hill that little hick piece of shit!" The Latino raged, throwing his arms in the air and pacing back and forth quickly enough to burn a track through the floor. "He shot my boy scouts dead so I'll do the same for him! I'll put a bullet right between his goddamn eyes!"

"Would you calm down already?" Scott snapped, irritated by Da Silva's inability to control him self. "They've got no way to get in here and in about four hours there won't be enough left of them to fit in a matchbox. So chill out."

"Fuck off!" Da Silva bellowed, turning to focus the storm of his fury on Owens. "Those were my men out there! I don't expect you to understand a concept like honor, you little rat, but – "

"Please, major," Smith interrupted, stuffing his handheld computer back into his rucksack, "don't you think you're being just the slightest bit overdramatic? You didn't seem too concerned about upholding the values of honor and valor when you left Foller to the mercy of the Chameleon's back in the woods."

"How did you see that?" Da Silva asked suspiciously after starring at the supervisor for a moment. While his tone was sharp it was also suddenly meek and very small. "You had taken off by then."

"I have exceptional eyesight, major." Smith replied mysteriously. "It was one of the benefits I gained after my…accident."

Scott shuddered in spite of himself. His employers had not deemed to tell him a great deal about the men he would be teamed up with for Puppet Master but this "Smith" had been mentioned. He had been a mole of sorts as well but when one of his operations had gone a rye the company had used him in an experiment of their own and now he was said to be more ruthless than ever – their "secret weapon". Scott had been encourage to exercise extreme caution in what he said to Smith though it seemed Major Da Silva had not received similar instructions.

"You don't know anything about it." Rico said curtly, making no effort to conceal the bite in his voice.

"I know you're wasting time," Smith replied, "and as Mister Owens was so kind to point out we don't have a great deal of that left. In just over four hours the military is going to wipe Raccoon City clean and we still have data to collect, a facility to destroy and helicopter to put in the air. Major, you can mourn the loss of your teammates later – if you really want to – but for now I suggest you and Sergeant Owens accompany me." Hefting the silver case off the floor Smith started down the hallway.

The main lobby of the AMRS was not all that impressive really – at least not to Scott's eyes. The ceiling and walls were made of white ceramic tiles, the floor, made of the same material, was embossed with a massive representation of the Umbrella logo. The red and white shield seemed to glow beneath the flickering fluorescent lights overhead. A short staircase led to a bank of cold, stainless steel elevators, each set with a palm reader and keycard scanner. At the bottom of the stairway the hall split in two directions, the red arrows painted on either side of the elevators designated the areas as STAFF LOUNGE and SECURITY.

Ignoring the ache creeping up and down his bloodied arm, Scott pressed the stock of his M-4 tight to his shoulder as the sound of faint, shuffling footsteps reached him from around the corner labeled as the security wing. Rico and Smith pulled to a stop beside the mercenary as two figures dressed in the dirt-spattered white shirts and beige slacks of guards lurched around the corner. Their hollow moans and vacant milky eyes served as evidence that nothing even remotely human remained in the shells of their flesh. The three men opened fire as one and the two former security guards fell to the ground in a twitching, bullet-riddled heap.

"It gets kind of fun after awhile, doesn't it?" Owens observed with a grin, swapping magazines but Rico failed to see the humor.

"Shut up." The major said bluntly, brushing past Scott who could only shake his head and sigh.

Setting the silver case down, Smith removed his handheld computer and jacked the device into the bottom of the card reader set beside one of the elevators. A few keystrokes later and the red light above the lift turned green and a friendly beep echoed down the hall. The rumble of machinery flooded the chamber as the elevator came to life.

Smith took a second to study a map encased in a glass frame screwed to the wall before nodding and retrieving the silver case. "Fourth floor," he said pressing a button to call the elevator. "Just a few loose ends to tie up, gentlemen, and then you can all go home rich men."

"Tell that to Petrovsky and the others." Rico grumbled.

Scott nodded absently for he had heard that promise many times in his career and quite often his employers had tried to negate their part of the deal after he had completed his. Such strategies never ended well for them but Scott did not appreciate the added aggravation all the same. The rush of outsmarting others and testing himself in combat certainly outweighed something as menial as money but a man _did _have to earn a living after all and Scott _did _enjoy being paid on time. Sadly, he was also aware that the one thing corporations detested more than anything was parting with their earnings – especially to grunts like Scott Owens.

_Maybe after this is all over I should get out of the country. _Scott thought as he waited for the elevator to arrive. _I've stuck around America for too long now and it's never a good idea to get comfortable in one spot for long. I think I'll head over to Denmark next. A Westerner with enough cash can do pretty nicely for himself over there._

The elevator announced its arrival with another cheery note and the three men climbed aboard. So far Scott had been given the opportunity to sabotage four Army transports, outwit a Ranger lieutenant and test his survival skills against a city swarming with biologically engineered death machines. Not bad as far as thrills went for a couple days work but the real challenge would come in collecting his fee. Scott Owens knew things that could damage Umbrella and they would have to be fools not to see that as well. They were not fools though, Scott knew, no man rose to prominence in the world's most powerful commercial entity by being foolish.

_Which means they can't take a chance on me being co-operative enough to keep my mouth shut. _Scott thought as Smith hit the button for the fourth floor and the doors slid shut. _With what I know about their hobbies I could blackmail the head cheeses for millions – maybe even billions. So, how are they planning on getting rid of me then? A hidden sniper on a roof overlooking the meeting place or maybe an explosive little surprise in the case with my money? No matter, being careful might be boring but I can still do it when the situation calls for it. _

Scott decided that when he got back to New York he would arrive to the meeting place a few hours early to scope out the best locations for a hidden agent to put a bullet in the back of his head from. He would show up armed as well, deal with the hit men Umbrella thought he would be too stupid to see then collect his earnings from whatever poor bastard the company assigned to deliver them. Scott would even give the man a bullet or two as a tip for a good effort. Effort should always be rewarded.

That he would be betrayed in the end was a certainty to the mercenary – and he knew a thing or two about betrayal. Well, that was the reality of a business that dealt in large sums of cash and Scott Owens felt no real animosity towards his employers for thinking it easier to dispense with him than pay for his services. Still, it was more than a small bit annoying that he should go through all the trouble of collecting combat data for the corporation just to turn it over and receive a knife in his back instead of a paycheck in his hand for all that hard work.

Maybe blackmail was not such an unsavory notion after all. Scott possessed a wealth of damning evidence against White Umbrella and the company had deep pockets. Owens was by no means a greedy man but he did believe that insults should be punished and Umbrella had certainly insulted him by doubting his intelligence. Scott could think of no greater punishment from Umbrella's standpoint than having to hand over the millions they had built through cut-throat ambition and cold-blooded murder.

_Besides, _Scott thought as the elevator began its ascent, _it might not be so rough seeing how one of their executives lived either. _Scott smiled. Strong arming an international, multi-billion dollar corporation out of its profits would be the greatest challenge of his life – and thus bring the greatest high. _Just a few loose ends to tie up and then I can really get to work. _He could have laughed with the sheer joy the anticipation brought with it.

---------- Page Break ----------

"We have a problem, Wes." Tech said to the Brit after inspecting the doorway that led inside the Arklay Mountains.

Sergeant Creeks sighed. "Tech, we just lost a good woman to those bastards in black, Zeke is having an emotional breakdown and in little over four hours we're going to be vaporized by our own government. We have _several _problems."

Tech blinked. "Okay, fine, we have a _new _problem then." The weasel-faced biker gestured back to the cliff face with his good arm. "I thought the entrance would be sealed by a keypad or a palm reader or something easy to crack like that but I was wrong. There's a fucking electrical jack set into the floor so the researchers must have been given mini-computers to access it with – or they knew about an even more discreet way inside. Either way I'd need a fucking code-breaker unit to get that thing to do another fucking Open Sesame routine."

"Let me guess," Wesley sighed again, "you don't have a code-breaker unit on you?"

Tech shrugged and made a face. "I left it in my other set of pants. Sue me."

Suppressing the overwhelming urge to throw his hands into the air and scream 'til his lungs gave out Wesley lowered himself onto a boulder and took a moment to look around, trying to put his thoughts into order. Officer Gabbor and Skip rested with their backs pressed against the wall of rock a few yards distant, both looking like death on two legs. Neither man said anything but tears streamed unchecked through the grime on Eddie's face and Wesley could not even contemplate the depth of the young officer's grief. With Kathy's death he was now probably all that remained of the Raccoon Police and that knowledge had to be particularly sharp. Coop and Shank moved about the fallen B.O.N.E.S. troopers, checking the dead for weapons and ammunition though Wes no longer saw any point in doing so. If they could not get inside the AMRS then all the weaponry in the world would not do them an ounce of good.

Ragged, violent sobbing drew the Brit's attention over to where Zeke sat in the dirt tearing at his short hair with both hands. The lieutenant's eyes were bloodshot, his face, covered in a filth and blood, was a mask of incomprehensible horror and misery. Despite Zeke's pathetic state Wes felt no pity for the man – only sympathy. They had all been forced to endure so much madness and strife that it was no wonder one of them would break beneath its burden. They had all lost friends and been forced to watch the innocent die but Wesley would save his tears for when they were as far from Raccoon City as humanly possible. Still, it tore his heart to pieces that there were no words or actions he could offer to his childhood friend that would give him comfort and restore light to a mind that had to be consumed with darkness.

For his entire life Wesley Creeks had avoided contemplating the severity of situations with the practiced skill of humor. He fought off fear with jokes and resisted the urge to cry by replacing it with the urge to laugh. Now, after seeing the terrors hiding in the dark places of Raccoon, Wesley doubted anything would ever seem funny again. He would hear screams instead of laughter; feel the cold touch of death instead of the warmth of mirth. Even if he survived the world would be a bleak, empty place devoid of the lights of joy or hope and, in many ways that frightened Wesley a great deal more than the prospect of dying.

_Stop pissing in your pants and think of something you twit. _Wesley's mind snapped at him. _So what if you'll never be able to pursue a career in comedy after this? If you don't think of a way to get around that door soon then the bastards that killed Rachel and Kathy are going to get away smelling like roses. Not to mention how many more people are going to eat it if Umbrella gets a chance to release this bloody virus again. Think!_

Knowing that he thought better on his feet than he did on his arse, Wesley pushed himself to his feet – and froze. Sticking out of a satchel at the hip of the Umbrella soldier closest to the doorway was an object that made Wesley's heart flutter. It was about the size of a textbook and the edge Wes could see was a muddy shade of brown. Sliding through the dust to the dead trooper's side, the Brit carefully removed the brick of plastic explosive and a remote detonator from the pack. A broad grin divided his grizzled face nearly in two.

"Tech, my boy," he said with a laugh, "did I ever tell you that only a complete jackass is stupid enough to give up hope?"

"What the hell are you blabbing about?" The biker asked pensively, coming to peak over Wes' shoulder. "The fuck is that?" He nodded to the package the Ranger cradled in his arms.

"This is the loudest key known to man." Wesley grinned, holding the brick out for the skinny man to see. "C-4 plastic explosive."

Tech blinked, startled, then he began to chuckle as well. "If we can't get the door to open we'll just have to take it off its fucking hinges huh? I've always liked doing things the direct way."

"Amen." Wesley agreed, stuffing the charge and detonator back into the satchel before handing it over to Tech. "Go and set it up – get Coop to give you a hand. Tell Shank and the others to collect weapons and hand them out. I'll go get Zeke."

Tech nodded dutifully then scurried off to inform the others of their find. Wesley moved over quickly to where Zeke sat and gave his weeping friend's shoulder's a firm shake. After a moment the lieutenant raised his eyes to meet the Brit's and Wesley found himself completely unprepared to meet all the emotion's locked away in Zeke's tired, broken gaze. Pain, anguish, fear, guilt and a supreme hatred moved in a fluid dance, overlapping one another in an endless battle for dominance. Where had the boy he played pranks with in Junior High gone? What had happened to the man he chased skirts with on Friday nights? It was shocking, Wesley thought, how when innocence was lost it was not merely taken away but thoroughly crushed and ground to powder, leaving nothing but an empty, yawning chasm of agony in a man's eyes.

"Come on, boss, we aren't lying on the mat with the ref counting to ten just yet." Wesley said with a grin that he hoped was encouraging, still gripping Zeke's shoulders. "One of those sods was carrying enough C-4 to level a house. We'll be able to bring that door down and hop on the first chopper out of town."

"Go without me." Zeke said in a hollow voice, starring up through a veil of tears and dried blood. "Leave me behind."

"I don't think so, Zeke." Wesley chuckled nervously. "You might not be the most entertaining chap to hang around with all the time but you're the only one that can stand me for any extended period of time and I'm not giving that up so lightly. Now, get on your feet and let's go."

"You don't understand, Wes." The lieutenant shook his head. "How many people did I leave behind? Captain Sullivan, Tessa, William." Zeke shook his head once more then lowered his eyes. "It's my turn to be left behind now. It's what I deserve."

"Zeke," Wesley said gently, "they told you to leave them. You would have died if you stayed. You had no choice."

"Didn't I?" Zeke demanded acidly, his lips curling into a cruel snarl. "Didn't I? I _should _have stayed behind! I could have saved them. I-I should have at least tried _to!_ Maybe it would have been better to die like that – trying to help. At least then they would have had someone with them in their last moments – someone to die next to them. Think about how they must have felt, Wes. Think about the _fear _they must have felt at being abandoned to die alone in the dark at the hands of something that should even _exist!_ Just think about it!" The lieutenant wailed and tore at his hair.

"You don't mean any of that, Zeke." Wesley frowned, startled and frightened by his friend's words. "You know it's what they wanted. You know they don't blame you for leaving."

"Well they should!" Zeke protested stubbornly, tears rolling freely down his cheeks once more. "I left them to _die_, Wes, don't you see that? _Me, _it was _my _decision! Can you even possibly imagine what it's like to know _that?" _The lieutenant broke off sobbing.

"I know what it's like." Wesley said firmly. "They were my friends too; I cared about them but it was _their _decision, Zeke, not yours and throwing your life away wouldn't have changed anything. You can't save everyone and you can't undo the past so you're going to have to learn to live with it. Now, come on. We have to go."

"You're leaving me behind. That's an order."

Wesley shrugged. "You'll just have to report me for insubordination when we get back then. Wouldn't be the first time I've been threatened with court marshal."

"Get out of here, Wes."

"Not without you."

Zeke laughed then, a mad, grief-stricken cackle that chilled the blood in Wesley's veins. "How stupid are you, Wes?" Zeke asked, wearing an insane grin. "Don't you get it? Once we're born all that's left to do is die. Life is just a fight against the inevitable! We _all _have to die sooner or later so why not here?" He gestured about vaguely. "It might be good to die here. I'll be close to Rachel here – as close as I can be anymore at least. Leave me here, Wes. You can go on struggling against fate if you want to but I'm throwing in the towel. I'm ready to die."

Wesley's face hardened and anger filled every fiber of his body. Time was ticking past and the others were starring at him but the sergeant's fury was so intense that he hardly cared. How could Zeke be so pig-headed and fatalistic? How could he be so selfish and blind? Did he not see that there were a handful of people trying to save him from himself? A handful of people willing to die beside the man that had fought so hard to guard and shield them against the evils Umbrella had unleashed on Raccoon City. Only a bastard could be that heartless and Wesley knew Zeke Wilcott was no bastard.

Summoning up every ounce of strength in his tired body Wes backhanded his oldest friend square across the jaw. Zeke's head snapped back and a startled murmur traveled through the small crowd at Wesley's back. When the lieutenant opened his eyes again they were wide and confused as if someone had just shook him from a dream.

"What – " he began but Wesley did not allow him to finish.

"You make me sick." He hissed sharply. "You come from an entire family of soldiers. Your fathers fought the Nazis and Communists and terrorists. Don't you think it was hard for them? Don't you think they saw friends suffer and die? How much horror did _they _have to endure? They never expected it to be easy though and they _never _gave up when it wasn't so what the bloody hell are you doing calling it quits after coming this far, Zeke?"

"Wes, you don't – "

"No!" The Brit cut in, silencing his friend with a quick gesture. "You're going to listen to me because I _do _understand. Rachel believed in you and so did Captain Sullivan. They knew you had the heart to see this through to the end, to do what was necessary. They knew you were strong enough to lead and so do I." Wesley paused to scoop up Zeke's pistol and hold it out to him. "You've got two options. You can either stop feeling sorry for yourself, get up off your arse and take us home _or _you can give up, roll over and die and prove to Rachel that you weren't worth half of the emotion she put into you. So, what's it going to be, Zeke? Was Rachel right – are you worth believing in or have we all just been wasting our time?"

Zeke looked up at his friend, fear and confusion plain in his wet eyes. He starred at the Colt held towards him and flinched as if he feared it might destroy him. Skip stepped up beside Wesley.

"You can do it, Zeke." The young man encouraged. "You've brought us this far. You can take us the rest of the way."

"We're with you until the end, boss." Shank said, slinging one of the black-finished AK's around his neck. Tech nodded at the big man's side. "All of the way and not just half."

"I just want to go home, lieutenant." Eddie said coming forward. "If I've learned anything tonight it's that you're the man to do it. You've gotten us out of some tight spots before and this seems like the tightest yet so I'm not going anywhere unless you're coming with me."

"Maybe I should have been a postman," Coop said grinning, having exchanged his empty SAW for the B.O.N.E.S. gunner's M-60, "but you were born for this business. Come on, boss, take us home huh?"

Zeke glanced around at all the eager, trusting faces looking more bewildered if anything. Silently, Wes urged his childhood companion to pick up the weapon, to lead these people whose hopes rested on this Ranger lieutenant that had helped them survive despite the odds. Then, tentatively, Zeke reached out and took the pistol from the Brit's outstretched hand.

"Too many people will die if we let those shit-heads get away." He said, all traces of that momentary madness gone. The old Zeke was in control again and Wesley beamed a grin. "We have some unfinished business with Major Da Silva – some loose ends to tie up before we get out of here. Coop blow the door. We're going hunting."

"Now you're speaking my language." Wesley laughed, cocking the bolt on his rifle.

Seconds later a massive blast rocked the Arklay Mountains as a smoking hole was blown clean through the cliff face itself. Together the small band of survivors moved forward with their leader firmly restored and nothing but hope to lift their spirits. Only a complete jackass gives up hope, Wesley reminded himself and in spite of everything he knew there was still hope. There was _always _hope.

**Author's Note:** Another update? This soon? Yep. I felt I owed you guys a quick update after such a long time away so here it is. I know it's short and a little less action packed but I felt that it was time to deal with some of the psychological issues Zeke is having to wrestle with. The next update (hopefully soon) will include some more running and gunning so please stay tuned. Please enjoy and don't forget to review if you have the time. Your reviews are what keep me writing so please give me some feedback! Thank you and enjoy.


	33. Casualties

**Chapter 32: Casualties**

October 3, 1998

3:15 AM

Arklay Mountain Research Station

Shank let out a low, impressed whistle next to Zeke as they climbed over the rubble covering the entrance into the mountainside. "These are some sweet digs they've got here." The big man said, taking a look around.

The chamber the group entered was high-vaulted and filled with stale, cool air. Pristine white tiles covered the floor and walls, reflecting the otherwise mild lighting into an eerie, sterile glow that was harsh on the eyes. Painted across the tiles in the middle of the floor was a glossy red and white shield – the Umbrella Incorporated insignia. A short flight of steps led down to a bank of elevators set with electronic scanners of some sort. Only a few feet away from the lifts lay the bodies of two men in what Zeke surmised to be security guard uniforms, each displaying enough holes to make a brick of Swiss cheese envious.

Cautiously, Zeke moved down the steps and turned one of the rent-a-cops over with the toe of his boot. He recoiled instantly, clapping a hand over his nose to block the smell even as he gagged. Whoever the guard had been was dead long before he had been turned into a human sieve. The man's ashen, leathery skin and soulless white eyes plainly labeled him as a carrier of the T-virus.

"The handiwork of our friends in black?" Pierce asked nodding to the two carcasses and making everyone jump. The sharpshooter spoke so seldom it seemed he was practically invisible sometimes.

"It looks that way." Zeke said. "This is bad. If these two were infected then that means the virus was able to get in here too and I doubt Fort Leavenworth is as secure as this place."

"You can say that again." Cooper mumbled, taking an awed look around.

"Trust a bunch of rich, old white geezers to come up with something as elaborate as this." Eddie snorted, checking the pistol he had taken off one of the B.O.N.E.S. soldiers outside. "A secret mountain base – if you ask me you white folks all watch way too many James Bond movies. I wonder how many of these hidey-holes the Umbrella brass have scattered throughout the city."

"Try throughout the _world,_ man." Skip said, tucking a black-finished Colt 1911 into the waistband of his pants. "Umbrella has offices in every corner of the planet. They could have hundreds of spots set up like this."

The kid made a good point, Zeke thought, and a rather scary one. Umbrella Incorporated was the single most powerful country, not only in America but the entire world. How many more areas like the AMRS did they have concealed in mountaintops or below the surface of the earth? Just how much T-virus did they have stockpiled in cities around the globe waiting to go off like a time bomb and unleash man's every impossible fear in the passage of a few hours? Umbrella was playing with a kind of fire that would burn many more than just them selves if someone dropped the match.

"I've got something here, lieutenant." Wesley said pointing to a map in a glass case hanging beside one of the elevators. Using the butt of his rifle to break away the glass, Wes removed the map and scanner its surface with one finger. "Helipad…Cafeteria…Water Treatment Center…Archives…Administration…Storage…Underground Trolley Platform…there's a lot of sights to see in this merry place, Zeke."

"We only need to see one though, right?" Eddie asked. "The helipad. We jump on a bird and fly the coup, right?"

"No," Zeke shook his head, taking the map from Wesley and giving it a quick study before turning to face the others. "Umbrella has too much blood on its hands for us to just ignore it and walk away. Burke said all on-going projects by Umbrella scientists had to be sent here for review so my bet is that if we make a trip up to the fourth floor archives we'll be able to find something that ties the Tyrant Virus and Umbrella together. With concrete proof like that we'll be able to cut the snake's head off before he ever gets the chance to bite again."

"Won't they have just deleted all their files and shredded all the papers once they saw the spill was out of control?" Cooper asked.

Zeke shook his head. "My guess is that if the virus was able to penetrate this far – " he pointed to the deceased security guards with an AK-47 he had lifted from a dispatched B.O.N.E.S. trooper " – then the staff here probably got zombified before they could destroy all the records."

"What an ironic way to go." Eddie commented gruffly. "Cut down by the sword they forged themselves."

"That's a little poetic for a rookie cop don't you think?" Shank said, raising an eyebrow.

"I was an English literature minor." Eddie shrugged and the big man laughed.

"We're going to have to get past these things if we want to go anywhere though." Zeke tapped one of the electronic monitors set into the wall beside the elevators. "Tech," he turned to face the rat-faced Psycho, "can you get these gizmos turned off?"

"If Margaret Thatcher was an ice-bitch I can." Tech grinned.

"I'm not to up-to-date on my British political history," Zeke admitted, "Wes?"

"She was." The Brit smiled.

Zeke nodded. "Get to work, Tech."

Even though he was forced to work with the disadvantage of only one arm Tech was nevertheless exceedingly efficient. The weasel-faced biker yanked a handful of wires straight out of the bottom of the panel then, with teeth and fingers, set to cutting and crossing the different colored strands together. Within moments the red light above the elevator doors flashed green and the whir of machinery filled the hall.

"Child's play." Tech said with a self-satisfied grin when he had finished.

Seconds later the elevator arrived and the survivors climbed in while Zeke pressed the button for the fourth floor. As the lift began its journey steadily upwards the lieutenant found himself starring at Wesley and a sudden surge of embarrassment swept through him. If it had not been for Wes he would have still been out on the mountainside crying like a little girl over things he could not alter and waiting for the end. At least now he was doing something meaningful: trying to bring his friends' murderers to justice and prevent another disaster like the outbreak that had befallen Raccoon from ever happening again. Giving up was always the easiest path to choose but never the wisest.

"I just wanted to say thanks." Zeke said quietly, leaning over to whisper to Wesley. "I'm not sure what I'd do if I didn't have you around to give me the occasional kick in the head."

"No worries, Zeke." Wesley grinned. "You might not be the most brilliant chap ever but you've still got a brain in your skull which is more than I can say for mo – "

Blackness poured into the elevator as the lights cut out and the brakes screeched to a halt. Lurching to a gradual stop the lift shook the men about like peas in a pod, throwing them all unceremoniously to the floor. Groaning, Zeke pulled himself back to his feet none too thrilled at the idea that he now had a few new bruises to add to his growing collection. A second later pale red light flooded the elevator as the emergency lights switched on.

"That sucked." Shank grumbled, climbing back up while Tech unleashed a string of particularly volatile curses at his side.

"Maybe our Umbrella pals know we're coming after all." Coop suggested, giving Eddie and Skip a hand up while Pierce hauled Wesley back to his feet.

"I don't think so." Zeke answered, starring up at the glowing crimson bulbs set into either corner of the elevator ceiling. "Those are emergency flood lights. I think this place just finally ran out of power – the entire grid in Raccoon must be down by now then. This place is probably running on back-up juice now."

"Where did we stop?" Pierce asked, rubbing one shoulder.

"Third floor," Zeke replied, looking at the digital display set above the doors, "the water treatment area. I saw on the map that there's an emergency staircase leading up to the next floor at the far end of this level. Coop, Shank, get these doors open. We're going to have to walk it from here. Stay sharp."

"Feels like we've been through this movie before, eh?" Shank said, pressing his fingers into the groove between the elevator doors on one side while Cooper did the same on the other end.

"Amen brother." Coop grunted.

Eyes shut, faces tight with exertion, the two burly men flexed their massive arms and pried the doors apart with a squeal of resistant metal. Once again, darkness flooded the shaft, punctuated here and there by the blink of multi-hued lights and the buzz of machinery powered by the AMRS' generators. Zeke's nostrils twitched as they detected the heavy scents of leaking motor oil, mildew and stagnant water. From somewhere up ahead steam hissed angrily from a pipe, forming a dense mist across the ground at about knee level.

"Follow me and stay together." Zeke said. "Flashlights."

Just as they had done in the parking garage of Skip's apartment building the Rangers fastened flashlights to their weapons and moved out of the elevator forming a protective line. The beams knifed wide swathes through the veil of blackness, shedding illumination on a concrete floor covered in a thin blanket of greenish water and walls crawling with vines of brown scum. Thick pipes snaked overhead, many cracked and spewing jets of steam. The flashlights passed across a vast array of strange machines: mostly towering gray monstrosities, rectangular and set with all manner of flickering lights, buttons, dials and displays that might have meant something to an engineer but were utterly lost on the Ranger lieutenant. Boots squeaking and face sweating, Zeke led the way onward, doing his best to keep his exhausted body alert. Finally they rounded a corner, moved down a corridor and came to the bridge he had been looking for.

"Woah," Shank said at his ear as they all came to a stop, "slap my face and call me Nancy."

The area had been depicted as being large on the map but that drawing had hardly done it any real justice. The band of survivors stood in the very heart of the AMRS water treatment center, a gaping void of space at least two hundred feet high and two hundred feet deep. Like the rest of the facility the water treatment plant had been drilled directly into the mountain itself and jagged stone walls surrounded a narrow steel mesh catwalk, about a hundred feet across, that lead to a shut blast door on the opposite end marked with the Umbrella seal and the label FOURTH FLOOR EMERGENCY EXIT. Above was an impenetrable canopy of darkness but below the Rangers lights bounced back off the surface of rippling blue water. The wind howled like a lost soul through the high-ceilinged cavern and Zeke could see Skip shiver.

"Water level looks a little low today." Cooper observed absently, shining his light down into the gaping abyss below. "Maybe those gadgets we passed by haven't been doing anything but making noise for a few days."

"God," Zeke breathed, looking around, overwhelmed by the sheer enormity of the place, "they must have been pumping their water directly out of the mountain streams and filtering it on sight. This one section _alone _must cost a fortune."

"Funny how a corporation would rather spend millions building a secret mountain hideout than feed the poor isn't it?" Eddie observed with a sardonic chuckle, glancing over the catwalk's edge before promptly pulling away with his eyes clamped tight.

"Lieutenant." Pierce said tensely, pointing halfway down the catwalk to where his light had fallen across a dark shape.

It was the body of a man. The corpse was decked out in a black flak vest, fatigues and combat boots. In one limp hand the grip of an MP5 submachine gun was held. Whoever he had been, the figure was now a head shorter.

"Fuck." Skip cursed, quickly lowering his eyes.

"You said it, kid." Coop said sounding ill.

"One of our buddies in black?" Wesley suggested and Zeke was aware of the tension in his friend's voice.

"I don't think so. I didn't see any of them carrying one of these." Zeke scooped up the MP5, checked it over then tossed the weapon to Eddie. "Ever handle one of those before, Ed?"

"No," the rookie replied, looking the submachine gun over before thumbing off the safety and pulling the bolt back, "but after tonight I think my learning curve has improved dramatically."

"Any theories on what happened to this lucky camper?" Shank nodded to the corpse.

"I've got a few ideas," Zeke said gravely, "but none of them are all that uplifting. Let's just get out of here."

The group hurried across the walkway, the sounds of their footfalls echoing off into eternity. The blast door consisted of several inches of solid steel with red siren lights blazing overhead painting the room in a blood red glow. A card reader panel like the ones on the elevators flashed the message ACCESS DENIED in bold red type over and over.

"Shit." Tech cursed. "When the power went down it must have shorted this piece of crap out." He flicked the screen with one finger in irritation.

"Can you get it open?" Zeke asked over his shoulder, watching the other end of the catwalk.

"It'll take time." The weasel-faced Psycho replied.

"I suggest you hurry then."

"Right." Tech dropped onto his back beneath the console and began pulling out wires.

"Do you hear that?" Wesley asked, scanning the darkness above with his weapon.

Heart pumping, Zeke strained his ears and then he heard something as well. It was a harsh, irregular hissing similar to that the steam made when it burst from the pipes except that this noise had been absent only moments earlier. _And there aren't any pipes in this section. _Zeke tightened his hold on the AK as the sound repeated itself. _Plus it sounds like it's coming from beneath us. _

A wet slap against the side of the railing froze all hearts and drew all eyes. The group turned to see that what appeared to be a thick, purple tentacle had coiled around one end of the catwalk with enough strength to dent the metal. Then the slimy organ tightened and a dark shape threw itself into the air, coming to land perched on the edge of the rail.

Zeke and the others stumbled back as they're lights revealed the shadowy intruder to them. It was one of the Scuttlers from Skip's garage, Zeke saw, only taller, more muscular and the sinew of its body was a charcoal black instead of a bloody crimson. Eight-inch talons grew from four paws, cutting scratches in the railing. What Zeke had first though of as a long purple tentacle was, in fact, the creatures tongue and lolled lazily all the way to the floor of the catwalk.

Zeke's eyes locked with the empty sockets of the mutant's head and he didn't hesitate. A stream of seven rounds ripped through the shrieking Scuttler's chest and sent it reeling away into the dark pit from whence it came. Then, all hell really broke loose.

Six more powerful tongues latched onto either side of the walkway and, a moment later, half a dozen dark, sinewy shapes covered the narrow walkway – some perched on the railing while others lay flat on the steel mesh poised to strike. Cooper took care of the creatures along the railing, the chatter of the M-60 near deafening in such close quarters but the heavy rounds tore great shreds from the Scuttlers bodies and sent them plummeting over the edge. One of the beasts along the walkway leapt at Ryan but the sniper was too fast and the blast from his rifle popped the Scuttler's head like an overripe melon. The last two monsters fell to the combine fire of Zeke, Wes and Eddie's weapons.

"Hurry Tech!" Zeke urged, sending his last five rounds through the face of a Scuttler that pulled itself up onto the railing beside him.

"Miracles are Jesus' department," Tech shouted, annoyed and afraid, frantically tearing and tying off wires, "and I sure as _shit _ain't Jesus!"

"Just hurry!" Zeke said then turned his attention back to the fight.

Another of the howling terrors jumped up beside Zeke but suddenly Wesley was at his side and ramming the stock of his M-4 into the Scuttler's throat. The creature's screams faded as it tumbled down into the dark. Scores of the hideous beasts were climbing up the rock walls now and Eddie and Cooper did what they could to sweep them clean but every Scuttler that fell away another raced up to take its place. Pierce's Remington clicked dry and he drew his pistol in one smooth movement, firing with practiced precision and knocking more of the screaming monsters from the railing. Two more of the shadowy Scuttlers leapt from the stone cliff and hurled themselves onto the bridge but were dispatched almost immediately by Skip and Shank.

"Almost there!" Tech hollered, twisting together another pair of wires.

A feral, splintering shriek at Zeke's ear drew the lieutenant's attention. He turned just in time to duck and roll under the strike of a clawed hand. The automatic rifle bounced from Zeke's fingers as he threw himself to the ground and suddenly found there was nothing but empty space beneath his legs. Failing his arms desperately, the Ranger managed to catch hold of the catwalk's grill before he went over the edge, his lower half hanging out over the yawning abyss. _Holy shit, _he thought, starring down into the gaping maw below.

"Zeke!" Skip cried and made a dash to where the lieutenant hung suspended but a Scuttler landed in his path and the young man had no choice but to sidestep and back way firing or wind up in two pieces.

The pop and crack of gunfire making his head swim, Zeke thought he was imagining things at first when he felt a strong hand wrap around his wrist. Then he looked up and found himself starring into Wesley's clear eyes, the Brit's face a study in utter determination. Zeke knew then that he could drag Wes down into the pit below but his friend would never let go. His friend would never give up on him.

"I've got you." Wesley said, straining to life Zeke's weight over the edge. "I've got – "

A harsh grunt fled Wesley's lips as his grip on Zeke's wrist slackened and his body crashed to the catwalk. Wrapped around the sergeant's leg was a gruesome, slime-covered tongue the color of an angry welt that rolled out of a cavernous mouth tipped with razor-sharp fangs. The Scuttler, no more than two feet away, hissed its hunger and leapt in for the kill. It did not get far. Shank whirled and intercepted the beast, bringing the stock of his AK down across the Scuttler's neck with all the might in his powerful frame. There was an audible snap of bone and the mutant hit the ground as if it were made of lead.

The big man pulled Zeke back over the side of the catwalk with one hand before assisting Wesley to his feet. "You boys can just add that on to your tab of what you owe me." He grinned.

"Thanks." Zeke panted sincerely then picked up his rifle and opened fire as yet another Scuttler tried to force its way onto the mesh bridge.

"Almost…almost…Fuck yeah!" Tech bellowed exuberantly, hitting two sparking wires together and receiving a gleeful beep as his reward. The console switched from red lighting to green as did the flashing sirens above the blast door. The readout now stated: ACCESS GRANTED and below that was a button titled DOOR RELEASE. "What did I tell you?" He asked, crawling to his feet. "Fucking child's play!"

Tech's jubilant laughter was cut abruptly short as a wet, muscled tongue wrapped around his throat from under the railing. Coughing and gagging, Tech grabbed at the rope-like tongue with one hand while fumbling at his belt for his pistol with the other. In the end the struggle proved futile as the tongue tightened and yanked back hard, pulling the weasel-faced Psycho over the railing and down into nothingness.

"_Tech!" _Shank screamed with anguish, making a desperate swipe for his friend but it was too late. The biker that had just saved their lives was gone.

"Goddamn bastards." Zeke said between clenched teeth, laying down on the trigger of his AK. "_Goddamn _Umbrella _bastards!_"

"Shit, I'm out!" Skip cried, eyes wide as his pistol ran empty and the spent magazine skittered across the cold metal floor.

"The door kid, get the door!" Cooper shouted, tearing three more Scuttler's from the wall with a spray from the M-60. "Go!"

"Crap." Eddie mumbled as he dropped the dry MP5 and drew his sidearm then gave the startled Skip a look that told him to hurry. "Move; we'll cover you!"

Swallowing thickly, the young man nodded and raced for the blast doors as the others opened up anew, Shank howling with fury and loss as he fired. Zeke saw the kid hop over the fallen body of a Scuttler, dodge the swipe of another as it came over the rail and, diving, slammed his palm down on the door release. With a hiss of hydraulics in motion the door slowly began to rise. Chortling with triumph, Skip picked himself up.

"I got it!" He shouted smiling. "Come on, I got it!"

Zeke turned at the sound of the young man's raised voice – and his face paled with a heart-stopping terror. "Skip behind you!" He cried, raising the AK.

Shambling forward behind Skip from the other side of the door with outstretched arms was a hairless man dressed in the remains of a bloodstained lab coat. The scientist's upper lip was gone, leaving the mouth fixed in a horrid permanent grin. Hunks of skin hung from fingers and cheeks that were as gray as smoke. Skip turned at last when the zombie wailed a dry moan but by then there was no room left to get away.

The researcher stumbled forward and caught the surprised Skip by the shoulders. Leaning forward the creature sunk its teeth into the flesh above the young man's collarbone, tearing way a bloody chunk of skin which it devoured ravenously. Skip's scream seemed to shake the foundation of the earth to its core. Zeke sent the last three rounds in his rifle through the zombie's wrinkled brow and the researcher toppled over backwards.

"Let's go!" Zeke shouted to the others, grabbing Skip's arm and dragging the shrieking young man over to the other side as blood poured down his neck.

Coop and Eddie were the first ones through, staggering backwards as they continued to pick off the frenzied Scuttlers. Shank retreated almost regretfully, spitting out profanities as he unloaded his rifle at the screaming horde of clawed horrors. Ryan pulled out last and one of the Scuttlers nearly took his head off coming over the railing but the sniper proved exceptionally agile and ducked the blow before sending a pair of rounds through the beast's face that sent it screaming down into the darkness.

By now the Scuttlers were flooding onto the catwalk. Utterly consumed by mindless bloodlust the creatures raced forward, snapping and clawing at one another to reach the head of the pack. They climbed over one another on the congested bridge, fighting to be the first to reach the survivors and a hot meal.

"Coop, grenade!" Zeke ordered as he and the others laid down suppressive fire.

The dark-skinned corporal reached into a pouch at his side that contained the grenades lifted from Haag and the dead B.O.N.E.S. troopers. Pulling out one of the dark spheres, Cooper popped the pin and rolled the explosive along the grate of the catwalk. Shrieking, the Scuttlers tore across the bridge, talons clanking across the steel mesh. A second or two later their inhuman cries were silenced by an explosion that set the floor to quaking.

When the smoke faded, Zeke noticed that the walkway had been blown clear in two and then, groaning, the two ends snapped and swung outwards. Some of the Scuttlers had not been killed in the blast and now struggled vainly to hang onto the quivering bridge as it buckled against the cliff. With a final, ear-rending crack both ends of the catwalk fell way into the darkness below, carrying the screeching mutants with it.

Wesley hit the switch on the other side and the door banged shut once more. Zeke turned to where Skip lay bleeding and weeping and howling on the floor. An indescribable sadness surfaced in the lieutenant: he wanted to scream, to break something, to stamp his feet and cry but once again Zeke Wilcott found himself helpless to act. He had never felt so alone and lost before.

Lowering himself beside the young man, Zeke tore a piece of cloth from Skip's pants and pressed the waded up material to the bleeding gash in his neck. "Looks like he missed the jugular, kid." Zeke said with an encouraging smile that did not reach his eyes. "So you'll be okay. Just hang in there, Skip, you did good. You did real good."

"Lay still buddy." Cooper said, kneeling to pat Skip's shoulder lightly. In the background Shank began to howl and curse again, pounding on the walls hard enough to leave impressions in the plaster. "We'll get you home soon."

"B-b-bullshit!" The young man screamed, a bloody froth forming on his lips. "I'm bit! I'm fucking _bit_!" Shrieking, Skip thrashed violently on the floor. "It itches! Zeke, it itches!"

"Easy, easy." Zeke said, his heart in his throat as he and Coop held the young man down. "Take it easy. You're to be okay, all right? We're going to take care of you now."

"No, no I won't." Skip panted, his face white as a sheet and his eyes squeezed closed as if that might shut out his pain. Sweat beading across his forehead. "I'm infected. I've got the virus…just like…everyone else in the city."

"You're going to be fine, Skip." Zeke assured the young man but was sure the tears choking his voice gave him away.

Skip seized hold of Zeke's sleeve in desperation and locked his frightened eyes with the Ranger's. "Please, Zeke." He pleaded weakly. "Please don't…let me wind up like one of those…things." He let out a shuddering sigh, blood rolling out from the corners of his mouth. "You…you have to shoot me. In the head. So I don't come back."

"No." Zeke said, flat out refusing the idea, feeling wetness touch his eyes. "We'll find another way."

Skip laughed sardonically then broke off coughing. "It's the _only_ way, Zeke. There is no other." He said once he had regained his breath. "P-please, Zeke, it's the only thing…you can do for me…now. You have to kill me. Please. I don't want to die…not like that. Pl-please, Zeke…I don't have….l-long left."

Desperately, Zeke looked around at the faces of his companions, praying that one of them would brighten and come up with some brilliant solution that would cure this young man who had shown so much courage and determination in the face of unspeakable evil. His prayers went unanswered though. Only darkness dwelt in the faces of his friends.

Shank continued to bellow and strike at the walls as if he meant to bring the entire facility down from the inside. Cooper squeezed Skip's shoulders gently but his dour face said that he knew the young man was fading fast. Wesley took off his helmet and ran his fingers through his long hair, looking as if he were contemplating tearing out every last strand. Grim-faced, Pierce said nothing but merely slid a fresh clip into his pistol and Zeke could see the tears standing in the sniper's eyes. Eddie sat on the floor with his face in his hands, shoulders trembling.

"It's the only way." Skip repeated in a voice barely above a whisper.

Zeke starred at the young man, saw the pain and terror in his eyes. If he did nothing then Skip would be worse than dead. He would become a mindless, soulless ghoul whose only impulse in life would be to consume the flesh of the living. Death would be a release from that fate; a blessing. Nodding resolutely, Zeke rose to his feet, drew and cocked his handgun.

"I can do it, lieutenant. If you can't." Pierce offered and his tone held sympathy not an accusation of weakness.

"No, Ryan," Zeke replied, looking down at Skip unaware of the tears dripping off his chin. "I wouldn't lay this on anyone else's shoulders or conscience."

"Do it." Skip said, his eyes glassy and far away, blood pooling beneath his head.

"I'm so sorry, Skip." Zeke sniffed back his tears and leveled the gun at the young man's forehead, his hands shaking ever so slightly.

"I'm sorry too, Zeke." Skip said with a wan smile. "Looks like I won't be picking up any chicks…after all. Now, please…don't let me turn into one of them."

There was a hollow click as the lieutenant thumbed back the hammer. "I'll get those bastards, Skip. I swear that I'll get every fucking _one _of them." Zeke wrapped his finger around the trigger. Cooper shut his eyes and turned his head, tears spilling from beneath the closed lids. "God forgive me." Zeke said though he was no longer certain he believed in God. Blowing out a shaky breath he pulled the trigger and the gunshot echoed off into eternity.

_More casualties. _Zeke thought as he lowered the weapon and shut his eyes, letting the tears come freely now. _More casualties to lay at Umbrella's door. _After a moment, the lieutenant opened his eyes once more, said a silent prayer that Skip's soul would find peace and turned to his men.

"Come on." He said, unable to conceal the hate in his voice. "We've got a bill to collect from our friends in black."

**Author's Note:** Another quick update for you my loyal fans. Please remember to drop a review and let me know what you think when you get the chance. I'd also like to give props to my man E-Z B, a fellow writer on this site. As he's said before he's the Wes to my Zeke and is one of the influences that keeps me writing. The other is my own personal passion and, last but CERTAINLY not least, is you, my Readers. Enjoy and stay tuned for more as soon as I can get it posted. Thank you and if you get the chance check out Darkness Arises by E-Z B, a totally badass RE fic.


	34. Returned From The Grave

**Chapter 33: Returned From The Grave**

October 3, 1998

4:00 AM

Arklay Mountain Research Station

Rico was feeling pensive. Actually, he preferred to think of it as feeling exceedingly and inexplicably pissed off.

His entire team had been gunned down save maybe for Foller but Rico could only speculate about the Australian's fate. Smith was now more firmly in control than ever and obfuscating what he knew with a measured zeal. Owens was hardly any help either as the little rat outright refused to share any information on Operation Puppet Master or the combat data he had gathered on the carriers in Raccoon. The B.O.N.E.S. major was just beginning to wonder who he had to kill to get a straight answer when the power went out and they lost valuable time while Smith had to hack through a door lock. Then, to round the night off, the archives turned out to be crawling with human carriers – a further bar to getting away home free.

Of course, between the three of them they had more than enough ammunition to transform what remained of the AMRS staff into fertilizer but Rico still did not appreciate the delay. Bodies, many already bloated and rotten, made a carpet along the ground of the fourth floor archives. Several wore tattered lab coats but there were a few in the denim coveralls of maintenance men or the bland uniforms of security personnel. It was one of those that Rico took a moment to vent his frustrations on, giving the corpse a stiff kick to the ribs but instantly regretting the move as he felt flesh and bone give way. His boot came out covered in a pale, pinkish fluid.

The AMRS archives were more like a computer lab than a library though there were metallic shelves stuffed with file folders and even a few thick volumes of books. The entire room was painted a cool shade of blue with banks of computers set into marble desks running up and down the area. Currently, the archives were running on back up power so the only illumination came from the static glow of the computer monitors and the burning emergency lights overhead that bathed the archives in the color of blood. Racing in between the rows of computers was a soft black carpet decorated with tiny red and white shields – miniscule representations of the Umbrella Corporation's logo.

"What were they all doing up here?" Owens asked, looking around at the fifteen odd bodies strewn across the ground with a sour expression. "This hardly seems like the best place to seek shelter."

"I suspect they were attempting to do what we are now doing, sergeant: erase the records and activate the self-destruct mechanism." Smith answered coolly from where he sat typing away at a computer in the middle row while Rico and Scott stood guard at either end. "Unfortunately for them it was probably already too late by then."

"Yeah, I'm crying my eyes out." Rico said snidely, adjusting the strap of his AK. "Can we cut the friendly banter and hurry this thing up? I'd like to get back home some time today before this place becomes a crater – if that's alright with the two of you gentlemen."

"I find that patience is a valuable quality to possess in a crisis situation, major." Smith said without looking up from the screen. "Perhaps you should consider better improving your own skills in it."

_Arrogant prick, _Rico thought holding his rifle tighter. The Latino seriously considered shooting his supervisor again. He doubted it would result in Smith's timely death but at least it would be amusing to see. _Until he gets back up and breaks my neck anyway. _

"There," Smith said tapping the ENTER key. A blue diskette popped out of the drive and Smith tucked it away into a waterproof container before sliding it into a vest pocket. The supervisor then went on to type in the command "file erase" before setting the self-destruct timer at thirty-five minutes. "There's a ten minute fail-safe for personnel to reach minimum safe distance and an audio warning at the five minute mark. After that the real countdown begins so it would be advisable for us to be elsewhere when that occurs." Smith punched the ENTER key once more and Rico could just about hear the clock in his head ticking the seconds away.

"Time to be gone." The B.O.N.E.S. major said as Smith bent down to retrieve the sample case.

Rico started as four holes hammered through the door handle in the emergency exit at his back. An instant later the door nearly came off its hinges as it was violently kicked inwards and six men stormed the room. Though most of his trip through the AMRS had involved running into the walking dead the B.O.N.E.S. major still felt surprise at the sight of this bunch for they were supposed to be wholly and truly dead by now. They were not though and Rico was starting to believe they had been returned from the grave to haunt his steps.

"Lieutenant Wilcott." Smith said calmly, rising to his feet holding the sample case in one hand while aiming his rifle at the man in the lead with the other. "I was hoping you and your men would have had the good sense to die out on the mountainside. Your presence here is…inconvenient."

"Well, how about you give me a call the next time your company decides to murder an entire city and we'll work out our schedules then." Wilcott snapped, standing a few feet in front of the men that formed a line at his back.

It was an odd collection assembled behind the Ranger lieutenant. There was a bald young man in stained police uniform, a hulking beast of a man with a flaming beard tied in tight braids and three others dressed in Ranger gear. One of them had long, unkempt blonde hair and was actually grinning. Another carried a bolt-action rifle across his back and had eyes as cold and unyielding as a plate of steel. The third soldier was nearly as tall and well built as the bearded man though dark-skinned with smoldering, hateful eyes. Rico noticed a large assortment of them were wielding the black-finished weapons of B.O.N.E.S. troopers.

"You killed my boy scouts." Rico snarled, tucking the AK tight against his shoulder. "You're all dead men."

"Oh really?" Red Beard challenged. "The last time I looked we had more guns aiming in your direction so why don't you just put your weapons down and _maybe _I'll make it quick for you all."

"Sorry," Rico shot back, "dying is against my policy."

"This whole place is about to go up like the Fourth of July on ecstasy, Zeke." Owens said, training his sights on the lieutenant. "Either way you're fucked, L.T."

"Owens." Wilcott hissed between clenched teeth, his voice dripping with passionate rage as he starred at the mole. "I'm going to save you for last, you two-faced son of a bitch. God help me but I'm going to rip out your spleen and tap dance on it before I give you two in the head. Rachel's dead because of you." The last was almost delivered as a snarl.

"You shouldn't make this personal, Zeke." Owens frowned. "It was just business. I was only doing my job., it was never about any of you."

"You scum-sucking prick." Wilcott growled, taking a step towards Scott with his rifle raised. "I'll show you just how personal this is."

Before the Ranger could make another move though the far wall exploded in a spray of plaster and copper wire. Rico whirled with the others, fixing the barrel of his AK on the center of the dust cloud that was dense as early morning fog. The floor began to quiver and shake as great, thundering footsteps resonated throughout the building. It took every last reserve of the B.O.N.E.S. major's willpower not to vomit in terror and run away when he saw what had ripped the wall apart as if it were made of paper.

At first only its eyes, burning golden orbs, were visible through the falling screen of rubble. A body, impossibly muscled and covered with patches of dark brown scar tissue ducked low through the opening made by a pair of arms tipped with bone claws as long as the blade of any machete and when the brute stood again its head nearly reached the ceiling. Throwing back its head the giant roared and the air itself seemed to tremble with its beastly cry. Howling, the creature's chin fell nearly to its stomach and Rico shuddered at the thought of the ease with which that gaping maw could swallow him whole. Out of the corner of his eye, the Spaniard could see that the young man wearing the police uniform had fallen to one knee, clapping his hands over his ears and wincing as the monstrosity continued to scream.

"The Devourer." Rico said with a terrified kind of awe as the giant swaddled in a scorched leather kilt shouldered its way further into the room. Reacting out of instinct more than good sense, knowing they were already as dead as dog meat, Rico started to raise his rifle.

"No, you fool!" Smith barked, knocking the muzzle back down with one hand. "It's not here for us. Look!"

Perplexed at first, Rico quickly saw what his supervisor meant. The Devourer's golden eyes blinked with a bizarre sort of recognition and then the thing grunted – a distinctly disappointed noise in Rico's opinion. Slowly, the lumbering Tyrant turned to face Lieutenant Wilcott and his group of survivors. The giant's mouth dropped open in an expression hideously reminiscent of an eager smile.

"Quickly, this way!" Smith ordered, tugging at Rico's sleeve as the Devourer advanced on the horrified party of survivors. He led the Latino and a pale-faced, shaking Owens to a metal door in the right hand corner of the archives and kicked it open with a crash, revealing yet another sterile-looking hallway with a staircase leading up at the end, lit only by the blood red glow of the AMRS' emergency lights. Without another breath the trio charged towards the hall, leaving Lieutenant Wilcott and his friends to entertain the Devourer on their own.

Rico was almost through the doorway when he heard one of Wilcott's bunch raise a shout at his back. "They're getting away!" Someone cried and the major had only a moment to hit the ground before the chatter of automatic fire chewed up the wall in front of him.

Falling to the floor and rolling over onto his stomach in one fairly awkward motion, Rico fired off a single shot and had the pleasure of watching it smack into the belly of the dark-skinned Ranger holding Sven's M-60 before Smith was hauling him out the door again. A faint smile touched Rico's lips as he saw that the last expression on the gunner's face was one of intense pain and surprise.

"Move! Move!" Owens screamed from halfway down the hall. The little rat, his face wide and pale with fright, promptly took his own advice and scurried towards the staircase.

Rico knocked Smith's hand away irritably as the supervisor pulled him up and then the two of them were racing after the terrified mole. Trailing after them came the sounds of gunfire, bellowing voices and plodding, clamorous footsteps.

"That's impossible!" Rico panted as they sprinted for the stairs where Owens was urging them to move faster emphatically. If he had learned anything from working for Umbrella then it was that what had just transpired _was _impossible. "Those things don't pick their prey – food is food. Why didn't it attack us?"

"Are you complaining, major?" Smith snapped as they reached the first step. "It has to do with Puppet Master. I'll explain later – if I feel the need to. Save you breath for running. Once we reach the next level we have to find the elevator to the helipad and I don't need to remind you that we're fighting the clock now."

_He hasn't changed one bit,_ Rico thought as he tore up the stairs, _need to know, the hell with the rules and not fond of questions. Same guy I always knew. Not that any of that matters now. All that matters is getting out of here before this place turns into a firecracker. _

Still, if Wilcott and his misfits made it out of their tangle with the Devourer in one piece they could certainly complicate that. But no…no they were probably dead already. Maybe Wilcott had been clever enough to outwit Rico and his boy scouts but they had been only men and the Devourer was no mere mortal. It was the essence of death given flesh; destruction wrapped in a shell and imbued with life.

_Then again, _Rico considered as they crashed through a door at the top of the steps, _maybe it's safe not to make any bets. That redneck got through the Chameleons after all – and he did that at night in the middle of a thunderstorm. _

None of that made any real difference though. Rico was confident in the Devourer's abilities and one way or another Lieutenant Ezekiel Wilcott was not making it out of Raccoon City alive. Major Da Silva would though, he always did, he was a survivor and he would make it back home no matter what he had to do. _Or who I have to kill. _

The firm coldness of the thought was quite reassuring.

---------- Page Break ----------

The Umbrella cleaners, along with the back-stabbing, two-faced, lying son of a bitch, Owens, had snuck out the back door but Zeke's sole concern was for the well-being of his men. Cooper had taken a round to the stomach during the chaos and now stood slumped against Shank, the only one capable of supporting the corporal's burden on his own. Furthermore, the creature they had first faced on the streets after fleeing Skip's apartment building, a horrid, golden-eyed demon with a mouth that Zeke thought had to be the pit of Hell itself, advanced towards them slowly. The giant's clawed hands flexed with eager anticipation.

The lieutenant knew their only chance was to make for the hole the behemoth had created in the wall – but even that was only a small chance. Zeke was all too aware that the tunnel could just as easily lead to a dead end as to freedom. There was precious little alternative thought and Zeke had a more pressing problem as it was – namely the solid, eight-foot tall mass of clawed death advancing on him.

"Wes," Zeke said in a rush, never taking his eyes away from the burning yellow cinders set in the beast's skull, "lead the others around this freak and through the opening it made for us. I'll make sure it's attention stays on me while you do it."

"But – " The Brit began to protest but Zeke was in no mood to argue.

"I'm not asking you – I'm telling you!" He snapped as the hideous creature took another lurching step forward, halving the distance between them. "That's an order, now move!"

Without giving Wesley any chance for rebuttal, Zeke leapt to the side and up onto one of the marble desktops. Cocking the bolt on his AK, the lieutenant opened up full-auto on the lumbering giant, the rounds peppering its broad chest and tree-trunk arms. Viscous black fluid – like the oil fueling a massive machine – spilled from the multiple wounds but a dark purple jelly poured out right behind it to plug the holes and stem the tide of ichorous liquid.

Howling, more out of irritation than pain Zeke suspected, the giant turned his way and took one plodding step forward. Behind the mammoth, the Ranger noted with satisfaction, the others were stealthily slipping through the still smoking hole, Shank holding Cooper up around the waist. Determined to buy his companions every last second, the lieutenant continued to fire into the tattered, scarred, mass of flesh that was the monster's chest until his weapon ran dry.

"That's it," Zeke taunted the walking horror, the fear he felt melting away to take on the shape of a foolish kind of bravery. "Come and get me you ten-ton sack of crap!" Leaping out of the way, Zeke narrowly avoided being sliced in two by the giant's talons as it brought one hand down with a feral scream. Sparks flew as the computer bank erupted in a shower of dust and sputtering flames.

Methodically, slowly, the clawed demon that should have perished in the fires of Skip's burning SUV turned and fixed the lieutenant with its fiery, golden stare. Zeke felt no surprise at seeing the beast alive and whole again; he doubted that he would find anything surprising after Raccoon City. Every madman's dream, every disturbed, warped fantasy of the human mind had been birthed in this necropolis – this City of the Dead.

Reloading as fast as his hands could manage, Zeke felt the floor shift beneath his boots as Goldeneyes took another step closer. The giant moved slowly, as if it had all the time in the world and Zeke supposed it did. Whatever or whoever the thing had been before the Umbrella Corporation had bestowed upon it the curse of un-life and with that came a perverted, twisted immortality.

_Doesn't matter though. _Zeke reminded himself, sliding a fresh clip home and pulling the bolt back. _I don't have to make it out of this alive – just give Wes and the rest enough time to do so. _

A crack of gunfire interrupted the lieutenant's thoughts. Dark blood burst from the giant's shoulders and Goldeneyes dropped its jaws to wail with fury. The power of that terrible cry alone was enough to sway Zeke on his feet. Wesley's voice filled the silence between the creature's roar and another report of an automatic.

"Zeke, get the bloody hell out of there!" Wes hollered and the beast roared again.

Cursing softly, the Ranger was forced to reconsider his strategy of martyrdom. If he remained behind to keep Goldeneyes occupied while the others fled it was almost assured that he would die in the process but it was clear now that Wesley planned on interfering with that process. Perhaps loyalty was one of the Brit's most endearing traits but it was also highly inconvenient at the moment. After all, was death not the rightful price to pay for all the blunders Zeke had made since arriving in Raccoon City?

Swearing once more beneath his breath, the lieutenant hurtled over one of the computer banks and raced around the behemoth to where Wesley stood firing. Then something remarkable happened – Goldeneyes charged. The giant dropped into a three-point stance and threw itself through the space separating it from its prey, bringing its knife-edged hand up in a wicked, underhand swipe. With only a fraction of a second to get out of the way or be carved up like a Christmas ham, Zeke dove through the doorway and collided with Wesley sending both men skittering across the tile floor.

Goldeneyes' strike missed – barely – and those foot-long bone talons wound up embedded halfway into the wall. Shrieking with primal outrage and frustration, the giant desperately tried to tear its hand free. Zeke gave the struggling terror, looking even more frightening so totally consumed by unthinking, violent anger as it struggled to break free, one final look before pulling Wesley back up and pushing him down the hall.

There was not a great deal to see in that thin corridor and with Goldeneyes' roaring pursuing them down the hall, Zeke was not all that concerned with stopping to sight see. Everything passed by in a blur. A white floor turned red by the emergency lights surrounded by red walls beneath the flickering crimson glow of the floodlights. Fitting, Zeke thought, that a company with so much blood on its hands should have their facility lit as if it were displaying that fact. A few doors lined the hall and Zeke surmised they led to offices but he hardly cared for Goldeneyes still bellowed fiercely. Then, as Zeke and Wesley round the corner, salvation appeared in the oddest guise. Against the far wall was a metal door marked in bold red letters: MAINTENANCE LADDER ACCESS (HELIPAD).

"We should almost thank the bastard," Wes grinned, looking at the door where the others were gathered, "without him busting in the way he did we never would have found this."

"I'll send him a card later." Zeke said absently then shot the lock off the door and tossed it open. Cold air rushed up from a dark shaft in greeting; the steel rungs of a ladder bolted to one side glittered in the pale light from the hall. "Time to go, guys."

A tremor rocked the ground, making the walls quiver and Zeke clutched the doorframe lest he tumble down the ladder shaft. From somewhere distant an alarm began to blare. A cool, emotionless female voice came over a hidden speaker and began to repeat the same warning over and over in a droning tone.

"The self-destruct sequence has been activated," the voice informed them and Zeke felt suddenly weak. "This sequence cannot be aborted. All personnel have five minutes remaining to reach minimum safe distance. Please evacuate immediately. Repeat. The self-destruct sequence has been activated. This sequence cannot be aborted…"

"Time to _really_ be gone." Eddie said, sweating profusely as the woman's cold announcement mingled with the screams of Goldeneyes from down the hall. With one last worried look at the wounded Corporal Cooper, the rookie cop jumped onto the ladder and began to climb.

Zeke ordered Pierce and Wesley to follow after the young man and both Rangers did so albeit reluctantly. Once the pair had began their ascent the lieutenant gazed at the ladder then back to where Shank supported Coop's tired, battered body around the waist. Getting the corporal up the ladder be no small feat as Joe was not a slight man to begin with and now lacked the strength to stand up on his own, let alone pull his bulk hand over hand up a ladder. Not to mention the added problem of the time limit those Umbrella fucks and their little pal Owens had just placed upon him. _There's no way they can suffer enough for what they've done here, _Zeke decided, _no way._

"Alright," Zeke said at last as the female voice informed him there were only four minutes left to reach minimum safe distance. "We'll have to leave the 60 behind so it doesn't get in the way then I'll climb up ahead and, Shank, you place Coop on the ladder. I'll pull his hands up to the next rung while you push his feet onto – "

"Forget it, boss." Cooper shook his head weakly and coughed softly, blood dribbling between the fingers of the hand he pressed to his stomach. Goldeneyes bellowed a challenge from down the hall and the building shook once more. "You're…you're leaving me here." Coop winced, his face a twisted visage of horrible agony.

"Don't be stupid, Coop." Zeke retorted angrily. "We're not taking off without you."

"Yes…you are." Cooper replied, blood trickling from the corners of his mouth as he began to cough again. "Put me…put me down, Shank."

The brawny Psycho nodded sadly before settling Cooper down in the corner, propping his back up against the wall. Joe was awfully pale, his skin starting to take on a sickly yellow tinge. Blood poured through the fingers pressed to his belly. There was a distant, searching look in Coop's eyes that Zeke had seen on so many faces of the dying over the past two nights.

"I'm…gut-shot, boss, and…the last time I checked…we didn't have a master surgeon on hand." Coop gave a wry grin before drawing in a shaky breath and continuing. "You'd never be able to…drag my ass up that ladder anyway. Now, go. Before…it's too late."

"Don't you fucking do this to me, Coop! Don't you fucking give up on me now." Zeke nearly screamed at the solider, roughly grabbing him by the shoulders. Three minutes left, the heartless witch on the speaker said. "Get on your feet, corporal! I'm taking you out of here."

_Thump. Thump. Thump. _The floor quaked. Zeke brought his head up sharply at the sound of those heavy footfalls and realized time had grown even shorter. Goldeneyes had finally freed itself and was ready to pick up the hunt again.

It sounded as if the giant were plodding along slowly enough but Zeke knew now that its sluggish pace would not last. _How long, _the lieutenant wondered, a cold sweat breaking out across his face as he listened to the sound of those thunderous steps, _how long before it charges and claws all three of us into scraps?_

"Zeke…" Shank said warily, gesturing down the corridor with his AK.

"Get out of here." Zeke told the biker, starring hard at Cooper as he tried to puzzle out a way of trading his life for the corporal's.

"Not without you two." Shank insisted, shaking his head.

"_Just go!_" Zeke bellowed at the other man and perhaps it was the raw, unbridled emotion in his voice or the wild look in his eye but Shank swallowed thickly, nodded and started up the ladder.

Two minutes left, the voice said casually. From down the hall Goldeneyes roared with triumph and grew closer. Sighing, Zeke starred into Coop's glassy eyes and relaxed the fingers gripping the big man's shoulders. He would have wept but had suffered through too much grief and sadness already that ere were no tears left to come.

"Looks like you were wrong about me being born for this business, huh, Coop?" Zeke said giving the other Ranger's shoulders a comforting squeeze.

"Nah," Cooper replied with a small grin. "I was just right about me. I _should _have been a fucking postman." The ground trembled once more and Goldeneyes bellowed. Groaning, Coop began to pull himself up. "Get out of here…boss. I'll keep…Chuckles here off your back."

Suddenly, Zeke was reminded of Captain Sullivan's last stand at the crash site, sacrificing his life to keep the enemy delayed. Now, Joseph Cooper was ready to do the same. Ready to die with dignity and valor. It was then that Zeke realized he had been mistaken about there being no tears left to shed.

The lieutenant took one last look at his friend, wishing for the words or actions that would undo all this. But there were no words left to offer and no actions left to undertake. Cooper would die facing Goldeneyes but he would die if Zeke tried to drag him up the ladder too. A man's fate is set in stone, Zeke thought, and offers no flexibility.

"Go." Cooper said as one, long-bladed hand appeared around the corner.

Clasping his friend's hand one last time in parting, Zeke began to climb, feeling like the world's greatest coward. _One more life given for yours, lieutenant, _the dry voice mocked him, _what have you given for them though? _Of course, Zeke could think of no answer and it made him ache with self-loathing.

From far below came the killing scream of an inhuman terror matched bravely by the defiant shout of a brave soldier. There was no fear in Cooper's final cry, just an endless negative fueled by courage; a refusal that this beast would ever be allowed to harm his companions. Then the bark of an M-60 swallowed both sounds and Zeke climbed faster.

Overhead that stale, unfeeling voice told the Ranger the time to reach minimum safe distance had expired and now the real countdown to the end had begun. Thirty-five minutes. One way or another there was only thirty-five minutes left in this nightmare.

**Author's Note: ** Hey all, sorry that it took me awhile to get this update up but hey, still better than my last three week hiatus right? Anyway, here's the next chapter for you, my Readers and let me thank you for all your reviews. Please keep the feedback coming and let me know what you like/dislike. There's only a couple chapters left in this tale so I hope you've enjoyed the story so far. Enjoy and please read and review! Thank you.


	35. Showdown

**Chapter 34: Showdown**

October 3, 1998

4:20 AM

Arklay Mountain Research Station

Zeke climbed through the near total darkness of the maintenance shaft, a hollow litany of the dead playing on a loop through his mind. _Joe Cooper, the new guy. Skip Francis, the brave kid. Sam Brocket, my unwanted rival. Rachel Parker, the woman I love, the woman I failed more than anyone else. _The list continued, naming all those pulled down into death by the Hell Umbrella had unleashed on the city. Naming all those he had let down. That list was far, far too long.

Hidden and high above, barely audible, came the warning that only thirty-four minutes remained until ultimate destruction. Zeke heard the words clearly enough but they did not stir him to move any more swiftly. Where was the sense in striving to survive when one's soul had already been bled, butchered and ground to dust?

_Live or die, sink or swim, it's all the same now. _Zeke climbed on and the litany continued to echo inside his skull.

A gloved hand reached down through the open hatch and the lieutenant glanced up to see Wesley's face hovering above him. The Brit looked like a mile of country road: dirty, dusty and unstable but he was there, he was real. In a city overrun with impossible horror, with the delusions of madmen, Zeke Wilcott's best friend, his loyalty and devotion, were real.

_Not that I deserve it, _the Ranger reminded himself, silencing the naming of the dead only a moment, _not that I deserve that from anyone anymore. _

"Coop?" Wesley asked as he hauled Zeke up from the last rung of the ladder.

Zeke shook his head and saw anguish flash across his friend's gaze, knowing those emotions were not mirrored in his own dark eyes. He was past the point of pain, past the point of feeling. A man needed a soul to feel anything and Ezekiel Wilcott had none anymore. No spirit, no heart, no hope.

_Kathryn Ward, the woman I promised to take care of and allowed to die instead. Curtis Sullivan, my mentor, my leader. Tech, the man who saved all our lives, the man whose name I never bothered to learn. _Briefly, Zeke wondered if there was any end at all to that roster of the fallen then decided it made no difference.

Upon leaving the maintenance shaft, the lieutenant had expected to come out on the helipad itself but instead found himself in a narrow, low-ceilinged hallway, dyed crimson by the cold glow of emergency lights. He felt no surprise though. He was empty, drained of anything that even resembled emotion. It was a strangely…calming sensation.

Eddie and Shank stood in the plain corridor as well, looking nervous but still hopeful. Pierce was at the edge of the hall, where the passage twisted to the right, studying something encased in glass with his flashlight. The sniper tapped the casing with one finger before hurrying back to where the others had congregated.

"It's a map." He said, tucking his light away. "There's only two entrances up here: the ladder shaft that unlocks in an emergency and another doorway at the end of the hall. All that's up here is a freight elevator. I'm guessing that they normally used it to transport cargo up to the helipad but it should do nicely as a way off this rock."

Zeke nodded. One way was as good as any other. "Lead the way, sergeant."

As if reminding them of the need for haste a tremor shook the building and that cool female voice said, "Thirty-two minutes remain until destruction. All personnel must evacuate immediately. The self-destruct sequence has been activated. This sequence cannot be aborted."

"I _really _wish that bitch would shut up." Eddie hissed through gritted teeth and then they were all moving, rushing down the corridor with what little energy remained in their exhausted bodies.

"The elevator is in the middle of the passage." Ryan explained as they rounded the corner. "Follow me."

Zeke followed though he did so automatically, without thought. His legs, sore and weary, carried him steadily forward as his mind turned back to the silent obituaries the he held within himself.

_Jacob Foster, who I was powerless to help. Tessa Foster, who I abandoned. William Brown, who I could not save, dead because of his own grief. Slugger, who died out of my sight, who I should have tried harder to protect. _Each one of those names should have bit like a poisoned knife and yet the Ranger felt nothing. Nothing but that peculiar sense of calm.

A splitting shriek and the clash of metal banished the grim litany once more and Zeke looked up as the ventilation grill in front of him exploded outwards. Hissing and clicking in its throat, a shadowy figure slithered through the opening, landing a pace ahead of Ryan. Zeke recognized the beast as one of the Scuttler's from the water treatment plant; long and reptilian, the black sinew of its muscles revealed.

Before the monster could move to the offensive Zeke and Shank cut the screaming mutant down with protracted bursts from their AK-47s. Molten lead sliced through the Scuttler as if it were made of rice paper, the sheer force of so many rounds at close range hurling the creature across the hall. With a final gasping squeal the Scuttler twitched out the last of its life against a wall now painted in a thick coat of greasy blood.

"I'm out." Shank called, tossing away the black-finished assault rifle before accepting the pistol Wes passed back to him.

Zeke leapt over the Scuttler's bleeding remains without a second thought for the unfortunate creature, the list that was the punishment for his folly beginning to run through his mind anew: _Kirk Judges, a friend and teammate, dead with his throat torn out. Shots, killed in an ambush because I wasn't paying enough attention. Rachel Parker, my friend and my love, stabbed to death, cold, lost and alone. Skip Francis, little more than a boy, dead by my own hand because I wasn't watching out for him. _So many names, so much death to lay at his doorstep. Yet it was his, his alone.

"There it is!" Eddie cried in tense elation at Zeke's shoulder.

Set against the wall to their right, in the very center of the corridor rested a tall freight elevator, partially concealed by a lowered gate of steel mesh. The lift itself was massive, easily capable of holding twenty men comfortably with room for twenty more. Whatever cargo Umbrella transported from the AMRS it was _huge_. Pressed into the walls on either side of the elevator were deep indentations, alcoves.

Zeke skidded to a halt beside Pierce as the sniper threw open the mesh gate, a new sound floating to his ears from the opposite end of the hall. _Boot steps, _he realized, bringing his rifle up. A moment later Scott Owens, pale and sweating, came into view.

The crack of the gunshot shattered all other noise. Zeke held the trigger down, lost in the steady pattern of automatic fire, the stock of the weapon bucking against his shoulder. The traitor, the murderer, the mole, ducked, the stream of bullets passing overhead to slap into the wall. Scrambling, Owens threw himself onto his belly and dove for cover. Roaring, filled with a hot, spontaneous fury, Zeke moved forward, unable to pry his finger from around the AK's trigger.

"_Owens!" _He bellowed, spraying the area. "_OWENS!" _

The lieutenant's world rippled and he was no longer standing in the corridor of the AMRS. He was deep in the Arklay Forest, lightning crashing overhead, dancing a frightening dance in the clouds as he held Rachel's fragile body and watched the life drain from her large beautiful eyes. _You can't save everyone, Zeke. _Her words rang in his mind, her smile flashed through his head. _I can't save anyone, Rachel. _

Another ripple and he was in the hallway of Saint Jude's Hospital, starring at the bloody ruin of Sam Brocket's severed leg. Kathryn was kneeling next to the wounded man, weeping over her friend and partner as he fixed Zeke with a serious look._ You're…an all right guy, Wilcott. Take care of…Kathy for me, _Sam's final words to him. _I failed you both, Sam, I can't take care of anyone. _

One more ripple and Zeke found himself standing over Skip, holding a pistol to the young man's head as he coughed up blood, infected with Umbrella's precious poisoned, doomed to a fate worse than death. _You…you have to shoot me. So I don't come back. _The young man had pleaded in his final moments and Zeke had assuaged him. He had pulled the trigger. _I'll get those bastards, Skip. _He spoke the promise even as he remembered it. _I'll get every fucking _one _of them. _

Owens was one of them. Owens had been one of them all along, working to undermine Zeke's efforts, playing for time until the right moment came to launch his betrayal in full light. Zeke realized then that he had been mistaken in believing that litany of the deceased belonged to him alone. It belonged to Scott Owens as well.

"_Owens! Owens!_" Zeke continued to scream and advance, unaware that he had run out of ammunition, heedless of the metallic object skittering across the tiles towards him. He was the hunter and he had his prey.

"Down!" Wesley shouted at his side and then something heavy pushed Zeke off balance, sent him sprawling along the ground. A thunderclap shook the passage, its concussion clearing the lieutenant's head even as heat and smoke washed over him, choking his senses. With the last of his blood-rage dried up, the Ranger shook his head, trying to silence the bells jangling in his ears and looked around.

Zeke found himself awash in a small pool of groaning humanity. The others all lay piled atop one another in the same alcove as he, grunting and cursing as they struggled to regain their feet. Coughing, the lieutenant pulled himself back onto unsteady legs, the ground trembling as the last of the shockwaves passed. Reaching down, he pulled Wes back to a stand.

"Frag grenade." The Brit answered, panting. "Bloody hell."

"The elevator!" Eddie cried as the thrum of heavy machinery flooded the hallway. Hopping back to their feet in a rush, the five men tore back towards the lift.

"Shit." Shank spat as they came around the corner just in time to see the gaping, empty shaft, the platform rising rapidly upwards. "Those fuckers stole our ride!"

"Will they be able to hold the elevator on the level with the helipad, Pierce?" Zeke asked the sniper with a fierce, pointed gaze. The sight of Owens had filled the lieutenant with an overwhelming thirst for vengeance. He may not have deserved life but he was still entitled to revenge. If not for his own benefit then he owed it to the dead. "_Pierce?_"

"No, sir." Ryan answered. "There was a notice next to the map that said the elevator can't be locked down during an emergency. It returns to this floor automatically after each trip."

As if to confirm the sharpshooter's words, the droning, mechanical chatter grew louder, nearer. The elevator was descending once more. Zeke blew out a breath he had not realized he had been holding.

"Finally, some good luck." Eddie sighed. "And not a moment too soon."

The young officer was no sooner done speaking when a violent tremor rocked the hall, making the floor quake as if a wave was passing beneath it. Zeke clutched the wall for support, saw Wesley do the same, and then he heard it: An ululating roar, a wail of the damned that could belong to no man or animal in existence but was the soulless voice of a marauding nightmare. "Goldeneyes," the lieutenant whispered.

_That thing will slash us into sushi in a minute – less if it decides to start running. _

"I'll stay." Shank said quickly as if reading the Ranger's mind, already starring down the corridor in the direction of the thunderous footfalls. "You guys get topside and keep our pals in black off that bird. I'll dance around the big dude coming for a minute or tow, keep him off your tails, then follow."

"I'll stay too, lieutenant." Eddie offered in a rush, scrubbing the sweat from his eyes. "I'll make sure we're around to catch the next one up."

"No, I'll – " Zeke began then bit his tongue.

_"No, I'll stay," I had been about to say. But then who would be around to get that chopper in the air? I'm the only one with the training: Just one more advantage to being Zeke Wilcott. _The lieutenant sighed. He was wasting time. _What will be will be. I should have learned that by now. _

"Fine," he said gruffly, tossing Eddie one of the two grenades he carried in his pouch. The floor rumbled as Goldeneyes came a step closer and the lift skidded to a halt. "If things go south, use that." His expression grew darker, more serious as he clapped a hand on the rookie's shoulder. "Don't be late. Both of you."

"We won't be, Zeke." The young cop said, swallowing thickly. "Now, go get that 'copter ready."

The lieutenant hesitated a second longer, nodding grimly as he starred into Eddie's wide, frightened eyes. Turning on his heel he ordered the last two members of his platoon onto the elevator and hit the button marked "H" on the keypad. Quickly, the lift rose out of sight, leaving the two men below to their showdown with one monster while Zeke went to his with three others.

Above the grinding clatter of metal and wire, the litany continued in the lieutenant's mind with two new additions this time: _Shank, the last Psycho. Officer Eddie Gabbor, the stalwart rookie. Two more men that died for me. _

"Time for the final showdown." Zeke muttered too quietly for Wes or Ryan to hear. _Then I can die for all them. _

--------- Page Break ----------

Another roar shook the walls of the passage, carrying with it sounds of death and agony beyond description. That inhuman wail was the voice of destruction itself. Shuddering, Eddie tucked Zeke's grenade into one of his pockets. Dust rained down from the ceiling as the terrible beast around the corner continued its march forward. _What did I just volunteer for? _

"Twenty minutes remain until destruction. All personnel must evacuate immediately. The self-destruct sequence has been activated. This sequence cannot be aborted."

"Yeah, yeah." Eddie grumbled to the disembodied voice as he checked the clip in his pistol. "One problem at a time all right?"

_If it makes you feel any better, brickhead, _Tredd said casually from inside his skull, _you'll be dead long before twenty minutes are up. _

"Shut up, Ben." Eddie hissed then caught Shank looking at him with a raised eyebrow. Growling, the officer shook his head furiously and sighed. "Sorry, feeling a little squirrely right now. What do you think the chances of us pulling this off are?"

Shank opened his mouth to reply but snapped his jaws closed when the hall shook crazily once more, knocking the two grown men to the floor as if they were rag dolls. Howls raced down the corridor making the duo grimace. The giant must have been striking at the walls and ground in its mindless hunger, Eddie realized with a shiver, climbing back to his feet.

"Bad." The biker answered when they were both standing again. "Bad but I don't care. The only friends – the only family – I had left in the whole goddamn world died in this shithole tonight so I've got nothing left to lose. Might as well go out with a bang."

_And what about you, greenhorn? _Tredd mocked. _What are you doing here? This hero stuff hardly suits a yellowbelly like you. _

_I'm no coward! _Eddie fired back silently but received only one of Tredd's derisive laughs in response. Cursing the voice and the man it had belonged to, Eddie stomped the sardonic chuckling out of his mind.

"I guess you could say I'm here because I've got something to prove to myself." Eddie told the biker.

"That must be one hell of a chip on your shoulder then." The Psycho replied then laughed. "It's funny. I always figured a man in your line of work would be the one to put me in the grave. The Lord and His mysterious ways, eh?"

Eddie was about to make a joke in return, anything to relieve the tension that was making his bowels clench like a vise, when the towering abomination Zeke called Goldeneyes stepped into sight.

There was a terrible immensity to the creature It was tall enough for two men, the top of its skull scrapping against the low ceiling. Muscles bulged and rippled beneath the giant's leathery hide like small, rounded waves. Foot-long talons dragged across the linoleum floor, leaving deep gashes in their wake. Its eyes, shimmering in the dim light like gold fire, burned with an insatiable lust for blood.

Knees locking, Eddie felt the bile rise in the back of his throat. He knew that nothing could stand against this agent of violence, this living apocalypse, and survive. The urge to run was overpowering but the young officer willed himself to stand his ground. Zeke and the others were counting on him, he would not flee or cry for help like at the barricade and if he would die then he would do so with dignity. _Laugh at that, Tredd. _

"Here we go." Shank mumbled, unsheathing two throwing knives from behind his belt.

Hurling one then the other, the two blades sank deep into the giant's throat and forehead. There was the crunch of bone and rip of sinew as the steel penetrated coarse flesh, splashing oil blood across the tiles. Growling, impervious to its injuries, Goldeneyes took another step, the concussion of its massive footfall dizzying Eddie. Around Shank's knives a purple ichor was sealing up the lacerations, stemming the flow of diseased blood.

_More like motor oil, _Eddie thought in a feverish panic as the beast came closer, _motor oil powering a locomotive with claws and teeth. _

_Scared are we, brickhead? _Tredd cackled.

"Shut up, Ben." Eddie hissed at the voice automatically. He raised his sidearm. "Go for the eyes!"

Following his own advice, the rookie pulled the trigger twice, one round bursting the glowing right eye like an overripe plum while the second struck the giant where its nose should have been. Screaming its displeasure, Goldeneyes slapped savagely at one wall with its paw, causing a small earthquake and collapsing a section of the concrete. Unperturbed, the giant strode forward another pace, dropping into a low, predatory crouch.

There was a soft whisper of sound as Shank drew Wesley's .45 and then the steady pop of gunfire. Two of the biker's three shots found their way into Goldeneyes' considerable jaw; the third blew apart the giant's one remaining eye in a gruesome explosion of pus. Purple slime flowed in to glue the wound shut but for all the creature's ability to heal it could not grow back an eye. Blinded, Goldeneyes whirled, laying about the air with its glinting claws, roaring with frustration, rending sections of the wall clear in half.

"Ha!" Shank laughed triumphantly. "That gave the big bastard something to think about. Get to the elevator kid, I can hear it coming back d – "

The Psycho's words drifted away, his grizzled face suddenly tense and troubled as the giant ceased its impotent flailing. Deathly silent now, Goldeneyes turned, the slits that served as its nostrils flaring, testing the air. Searching it. _It can smell us, _the thought drew all the warmth from Eddie's blood.

_You didn't think it would be that easy, did you greenhorn? _Tredd scolded.

Ignoring the haunting voice of his deceased partner, Eddie fired again. One round was all the officer got off before Goldeneyes charged. The towering horror did not just run up the corridor – it torpedoed up it, racing to close the distance faster than a linebacker with the quarterback in sight. Cursing, Shank flung himself into the alcove on the right. Eddie ducked low, pressing his body flat against the wall, cringing as talons raked the wall over his head.

"Shit!" Eddie swore. From out of view the announcer informed him that there were fifteen minutes left in his life. "It might be shorter than that, honey." Eddie grumbled.

"The lift is here!" Shank shouted, still sprawled on his back in the alcove as the freight elevator announced its arrival with a reverberating _thunk. _"Get to it now, kid!" The biker clambered to his feet.

Not needing to be told twice, the rookie darted across the hall – then threw his body out of the way as a dark, howling shape tore past him. Heart in his throat, blood thundering in his ears, Eddie looked up to see that, while he had been nimble enough to dodge Goldeneyes' second attack, Shank had not been so lucky.

Caught between the giant and the alcove the biker was unable to move swiftly enough and as Goldeneyes brought one clawed hand up, the twelve inch bone spikes carved a trio of bloody scratches up Shank's thigh, sending the Psycho sliding backwards across the floor. Eddie heard the monster sniff the air once more, growling hungrily as it caught the coppery scent of fresh blood. Clutching his leaking wounds, the biker screamed.

"Shank!"

_Where's your fucking luck now, Ed?_ Tredd asked with a snort.

"Shut _up, _Ben." Pulling himself back to his feet, Eddie opened up on the back of the giant's skull.

The bullets hammered into their mark, splattering fountains of black blood across the walls. Eddie continued to fire until he clicked empty, then reached for a magazine.

Goldeneyes' ceased its methodical plodding towards Shank's prone, groaning form and turned to confront this new threat. Pulse racing, lungs ready to burst in his chest, Eddie groped desperately for another clip – and cursed when he came up empty handed. Grunting like a satisfied lion about to taste blood and warm, sweet flesh, Goldeneyes dropped into a crouch. Its killing stance.

"Shit." Eddie breathed, letting the handgun fall, digging instead for Zeke's grenade. _If things go south, use that, _he had said before departing. "I'd say we're south enough right now."

His sweaty palm closed around the cool, metallic orb. Goldeneyes raised one, enormous sword-fingered hand. Benjamin Tredd laughed with mad glee.

_See you soon, brickhead!_

"Not so fast, skidmark!" Shank bellowed leaping up onto the creature's shoulders form behind, an arm wrapped around the beast's thick throat, one of his long-bladed Bowie knives held flashing in his fist. "You were playing with me before, remember?"

Man and monster roared murderously. Shank brought his blade down into Goldeneyes' neck once, twice, three times, the knife penetrating its leathery carapace with surprising ease. Eddie watched in slack-lipped horror as obsidian blood sprayed from the awful tears, showering Shank's face as he stabbed again and again, unrelenting, holding onto the giant's throat with all his strength. It was a contest of savages, the battle-crazed cries of the combatant's setting the hallway trembling. Eddie staggered back.

Continuing to holler and howl, Shank drive his knife in up to the hilt this time, twisting the blade as he gave voice to a challenged. Screaming, Goldeneyes spun about like a whirlwind, shrieking its rage. Faster and faster it spun, a hideous mockery of a dance, until finally Shank's endurance gave out and his grip broke. The Psycho was thrown from the giant's back, flying five feet down the corridor before finally crashing into the opposite wall. Bones snapped and the biker fell limply to the ground where he lay motionless.

Forgetting the fallen man, Goldeneyes turned its attention to Eddie in the space of a breath. Dropping into its killing posture, the giant seemed to coil then spring, speeding up the hall faster than a dart. Blind but still lethal, Goldeneyes moved unerringly towards Eddie, barring his path to the beckoning lift. Its claws, dripping and blood caked, shined brighter than the sun in the murky light of the hall.

_You could try and run, newbie. _Tredd suggested with disgust. _I always figured you for a runner. _

"No, Ben." Eddie said, freeing Zeke's grenade from his pocket. "No more running." He popped the pin, flicked off the clasp, starring into Goldeneyes' sightless visage. "Catch."

The giant bellowed as it closed in on the rookie with incredulous speed, dropping its jaw to its chest. Eddie lobbed the grenade then releasing it into the dark abyss of the creature's mouth. Then the beast was on him and hot pain screamed through Eddie's body as those foot-long bone talons pierced his side. Goldeneyes roared its victory; the grenade exploded and the detonation carried Eddie away into oblivion, into endless night.

_I'm no coward, Ben, _was his last thought, _what do you think of me now?_

Benjamin Tredd had no answer.

Author's Note: I'm back! Once again I offer you, my Readers, a thousand apologies for my prolonged absence. Anyway, I hope you enjoy and please don't forget to drop me a review. Let me know what you think. There should be two or three more chapters and then an epilogue. After that I might think about doing a sequel featuring the survivors of this one. Let me know what you think of that idea. Enjoy!


	36. Final Flight

**Chapter 35: Final Flight**

October 3, 1998

4:34 AM

Arklay Mountain Research Station, Helipad

"They're going to know we'll be right up behind them," Zeke said as the lift hummed upwards, "so odds are they'll be waiting for us as soon as we arrive. Stay inside the elevator, stick to the inside walls until I give the word to move out. When you move, move low and be ready for anything. Understood?"

Pierce and Wesley nodded taking up positions on either side of the elevator gate, hugging the inside walls to stay hidden. Zeke moved up behind Wes, settling the stock of his AK against his shoulder. The Brit turned and fixed the lieutenant with a lopsided grin.

"Ready to catch the final flight out of Raccoon City, boss?" He asked.

"Don't get your hopes up yet, Wes," Zeke advised, "there's more than one step left in this journey."

Somberly, Wesley nodded and returned to watching the gate. Steadily the lift rose, brining them closer to their quarry and escape. Zeke cared little for the prospect of escape though his thoughts had already turned to fulfilling the promise he had made Skip. He would get every last one of them – no matter what the cost.

_I'm coming for you Da Silva. I'm coming for you Owens. _Zeke thought, tensing his body for action. _You've been living on borrowed time since the first moment I found out who you were and now the clock is winding down. It's time to die. _

All that was left to do was finish off the cleaners, execute the traitor and secure the chopper. Then he could get his men – along with Shank and Eddie if they had survived their skirmish with Goldeneyes – to safety. After that was done Zeke's oaths to the dead would be complete and his desire for vengeance satiated and then – what? He would find a shrink? Quit the army? Eat a bullet?

_Probably the latter, _he decided, _but too many options to consider right now. Take care of the most pressing business first. _

The elevator came to a halt, a cool wind blowing through the mesh gate to caress the lieutenant's face. Wesley gripped the bottom of the gate in his hands, looking askance at his friend. Pushing all thoughts save for killing from his mind, Zeke nodded to the Brit.

"Move," he said.

---------- Page Break----------

Autumn's crisp, gentle breeze blew across the helipad of the Arklay Mountain Research Station, drying the sweat that had accumulated on Scott Owens' brow. Overhead twilight was giving way to dawn as the stars faded and the sky was painted a soft purple as the sun rose to its place high above the earth. Owens inhaled the clean air and smiled softly from where he crouched beside the elevator with Rico at his back. The loud thrumming of the lift letting him know that Lieutenant Wilcott and his companions were on their way up.

_A couple shots in the back and they all take a nice, refreshing dirt nap, _Owens thought with a grin. _Hardly honorable, but, then again, I never claimed to be. _

The mole checked his watch. There was a little under twenty minutes left until the self-destruct sequence was complete. _Plenty of time, _he mused, _plenty. _

Ahead of the spy, strolling across the asphalt of the helipad towards the waiting Black Hawk as if he had all the time in the world was Smith. The supervisor moved with a leisurely gait, the sample case tapping against his hip as he moved. He would be the bait for their trap, the first thing Wilcott would see upon exiting the lift.

_And in the state he must be in by now, the good lieutenant would pounce on a shadow. _Owens eased the bolt back on his rifle as he heard the elevator rumble to a stop and the mesh gate fly up. _Bye, bye, LT. _

"Freeze!" Zeke's voice carried easily in the wide-open space as he spied Smith. "Stay where you are!"

Owens resisted the temptation to laugh. _Still too proud to shoot a man in the back, eh Zeke? _Peeking around the corner, Owens watched as the lieutenant, Wesley and Pierce stepped off the lift, the elevator already slipping back down into the darkness of the floor below. All three had their weapons on Smith's back, their eyes stuck to the back of the supervisor's head.

_Fools, _Owens thought disdainfully as Rico touched his shoulder.

"Now." The Latino said and Owens stood, rounding the corner with the major at his back, both men moving as silent as the fall wind itself.

Carefully, the pair slipped in behind Zeke and the two other Rangers. Owens frowned. Hadn't there been more men with the lieutenant when they last met during that short exchange in the hall below, a black man and another fellow with enough hair on his face to be mistaken for a bear? What had happened to those two?

_No matter, _Scott told himself, leveling his muzzle with the back of Zeke's skull as his men advanced on Smith who now stood still with his hands held high. _Maybe Rico's grenade took care of that pair – or something else did. Even if he left them below as guards he'll be dead and we'll be long gone before they can come looking. _

Starring down the sight of his weapon, Owens pressed his finger to the trigger as Rico took aim beside him. Part of the mole's mind, the logical, professional part, told him to fire, to kill Wilcott then and there before the lieutenant had any clue of the trap he had just blundered into but Owens' emotional side spoke louder. It wanted Zeke to see the face of his killer, to understand that his trust had cost him his life and the lives of so many others. Yes, it was petty and perhaps even somewhat childish but Scott was like that sometimes.

_Only fools trust. _He grinned.

"That's far enough, lieutenant!" Owens called out, unable to stifle the smile that creased his face, as Zeke froze in mid-stride. "Not another step, you hear? Drop your weapons and turn around real slow."

Inside his mind, the mole giggled with glee. The look on Wilcott's face would simply delicious! Owens reminded himself to savor the moment, his grin widening with anticipation of the moment.

_Finally, _Owens thought, _a little enjoyment tonight. _

---------- Page Break----------

"Drop your weapons, all of you!" Owens shouted at Zeke's back. "I won't ask you again, now do it before I lose my patience!"

Zeke forced himself to stop, cursing beneath his breath. _Stupid! Stupid! I should have cleared the area first. _It had been impulsiveness that led the lieutenant to do otherwise. The sight of the B.O.N.E.S. trooper walking lazily towards the lone helicopter, his back turned arrogantly towards them had been too sweet an opportunity to pass up though and Zeke had ordered his men to charge without noticing the absentees. His impulsiveness was about to get them all killed.

_Why doesn't that smug little shit just pull the trigger then? _The voice in Zeke's mind fumed with a nearly incontrollable rage. _Why doesn't he just shoot us all in the back like dogs and end this goddamn game? Go ahead, just do it, Owens. I'd welcome the bullet._

He might have welcomed the peace of mind death brought but would Wesley and Pierce? Zeke doubted it. Despite everything he had seen and experienced, Wes still believed whole-heartedly in his friend and Ryan had a family to get back to. Both men were counting on him to take them home – and Eddie and Shank too, if they were even still breathing. Deciding his incompetence had made enough widows for one lifetime, Zeke nodded to his men.

"Disarm." He instructed them in a tone that forbid any challenge.

Pierce's face, cool and tempered as always gave away no insight into his feelings but Wesley's cheeks had turned a dark crimson, his lips tight and hands trembling with the anger he fought to suppress. While he remained outwardly as collected as Ryan, Zeke sympathized with his friend. He was certain they were sharing much the same thoughts.

_This is wrong. _Wrong.Zeke's mind screamed as he turned to face Umbrella's plant, the snake in the grass. _The dead deserve their justice. Owens deserves to die. It can't end this way, it can't. _

"Hey Zeke," Scott smiled amiably as the three Rangers turned to confront him, hands at their sides as they tossed their weapons down. "Been a long night, huh? I know you're probably really pissed with me right now but I just wanted to let you know that I'll look back on these past couple of days as a bonding experience. Seriously, I felt that we sincerely connected on this gig."

"You can sit on your dull wit and spin, Scott." Wesley spat venomously. "You two-timing _bloody _piece of horse shit."

"That hurts, Wes, honestly." Owens frowned, his voice tight with false injury. "Anyway, we've only got about, oh, fifteen minutes or so before this place goes up and my associates and I have an appointment to keep so I'm afraid our parting will have to be blunt."

"Just shut up and cap him already." The B.O.N.E.S. trooper next to Owens said in thick Latin accents. Zeke recognized the voice: Major Da Silva.

"Goodnight, LT." Owens smirked, raising his rifle.

"How'd you do it, Scott?" Zeke interjected quickly. Clearly Owens was trying to toy with them and seemed to be enjoying every second of it. Perhaps, the lieutenant thought, he could capitalize on that. If he could keep Owens talking long enough it would give him time to weave a plan together though at that point Zeke was skeptical that anything less than divine intervention would save them from their current predicament and he had stopped believing in God the instant he had put that bullet through Skip's forehead. "I guess I can understand the why but not the how. How was Umbrella able to sneak you into the Rangers without raising any red flags?"

Owens chuckled, lowering his M-4 slightly. "Come on, lieutenant," he chortled, "you aren't a dumb guy. Think about it. Umbrella is the most powerful corporation on the _planet._ Do you know what it takes to maintain that level of dominance? It takes other people with power – lots of it. You'd be surprised just how many members of the Chiefs of Staff are on Umbrella's payroll." He shrugged. "Sneaking me into your unit was just a matter of sending the right papers to the right people. Along with a healthy cash incentive as well, of course."

_Keep him going. _Zeke reminded himself. _Try a little ego stroking. _

"And the chopper crashes?" The lieutenant asked. "There were too many for that to have been a coincidence. Your handiwork?"

"Naturally." Owens beamed with boyish pride. "I used timed thermal grenades. They melted those engines as if they were butter. Sorry about the bumpy ride but it was pretty impressive, huh?"

_Tick tock, tick tock, lieutenant. _Zeke thought. _You are working against the clock here and the hourglass is almost out of sand. If you're going to come up with something it had better be fast. _

Daring to take his eyes off the traitor for a moment, Zeke glanced around the helipad as quickly as he could, soaking the information into his brain as if it were a sponge sucking up water. _Owens and Rico in front with weapons pointed in my face; One more Umbrella asshole at my back, probably drawing down on me too. The chopper is at the far end of the pad – we'd never be able to survive a run to it though. There's a ditch running around the edge of the pad, deep enough to crouch in – good cover if we could get to it. The elevator behind them is – coming back up? Is it Eddie and Shank though or – something else?_

_The two goons in front don't seem to hear it coming back up but what about the one behind? I can't count on the cavalry for this one then. We'll have to try and make it into that ditch then keep low, make a run for the Hawk once we're down there. It'll be a race to the bird then and if we make it there first Ryan can lay cover fire with his pistol while I get us airborne. If not, well, then the fat lady might as well start singing. _

The entire plan passed through Zeke's head and by then the lieutenant was already sliding over to the ditch surrounding the helipad, trying to make each step as invisible as possible while hoping the other two Rangers had the sense to follow his lead. Zeke noted with relief that they did and soon all three soldiers were baby-stepping to the right. Surreptitiously, the lieutenant brought one hand closer to the grip of his Colt pistol.

"I'm surprised at you, Scott." Zeke said, using the tactic of banter to keep the mole and his comrades distracted now. "I always figured you had a conscience, strong morals, but here you are, smiling and laughing, after you murdered Judges, Sullivan, Harris." His face darkened, starring at Owens now with a palpable hatred. "You killed Rachel."

"Wrong!" Owens snarled, his eyes clouding over with fury as he edged a step closer. "The virus carriers killed Judges and the captain. _Gravity _killed Harris! I never even _touched _Rachel so don't try and pin any of that shit on me, Zeke! I was just doing my job." The spy's face was burning as brightly as Wesley's had been.

_Good, _Zeke thought as they inched their way towards the ditch. _He'll focus on his anger not our feet. Let him see how it feels to concentrate on nothing but guilt and hate. _

"I'm _not _responsible for their deaths, Zeke!" Owens shrieked, eyes wild. "Not me! If it's anyone's fault then it's _yours. _It was _your _command. _You _should have been looking after them. They died because of _your _mistakes."

"Tell me about it." Zeke muttered. He could feel the weight of the handgun brush against his fingers now. The ditch was less than a foot away.

"I didn't want to make this personal, lieutenant." Owens said, his tone strangely pleading now. "You have to believe that. I was just supposed to keep you guys delayed, collect my data, and then leave you. I wasn't supposed to kill anyone on this gig and I _didn't. _Not yet. I have to now thought because you just had to go and _make _things personal!"

_The elevator is getting louder, _Zeke realized, _but they still haven't noticed it. _He wrapped his fingers around the grip of the .45. _This is going to be tight. _

"You're insane, Owens." Zeke sneered as he and his teammates moved inexorably if agonizingly slowly, towards the goal of the ditch. "You do despicable things for money. That makes you nothing more than a prostitute. A whore. You murdered all those people tonight even if it was indirectly. You put them in positions to die. You're just not man enough to admit it. You might think of yourself as a soldier, Scott, but you're nothing more than an overpriced thug!"

"Enough talk!" The Umbrella cleaner at the lieutenant's back shouted. "Owens, kill then already."

"With pleasure." The mole hissed, steadying his rifle. "Bye, bye, LT." Owens touched his finger to the trigger. Zeke tensed, ready to draw. Behind Owens and Da Silva, the lift clattered into place.

There was the ripping, hissing sound of the air being torn as a bolt of shining silver lanced through the weakening darkness. Owens cried out, falling to one leg as a knife the length of a man's forearm embedded itself in the side of his knee. Bleeding profusely, Umbrella's mole hit the ground revealing his attacker, Zeke's savior.

Shank stood propped up against one corner of the elevator, looking bone weary but smiling wryly nonetheless. The Psycho's thigh dripped crimson fluid and his face and shirt were covered in a thick black liquid the lieutenant could only think to describe as tar. Glimmering in the big man's right hand was a silvered throwing dagger.

Wide-eyed, open-mouthed and disbelieving, Owens turned as he fell, spinning in the direction of his assailant and loosing a burst of gunfire instinctively. Three smoking holes appeared in the stained material of Shank's shirt, bowling the biker back into the lift with a muffled grunt. His heart wrenched out of his chest at the sight of the big man's sacrifice, Zeke silently thanked Shank for the time he had bought them, the distraction he had given and the momentary chaos it wrought. All Zeke had needed was a moment.

_At least there will be one death tonight that wasn't in vain. _He drew his pistol before the thought was finished.

The Colt jumped in Zeke's hand twice, the rounds cracking through Owens' skull below the rim of his helmet, to leave bloody flower blossom marks in their wake. As the mole's body crumpled like a house of sticks, Da Silva brought his rifle around in Zeke's direction and the lieutenant hit the dirt, diving beneath a spray of hot lead. Wesley landed on the asphalt next to his friend, scooping up his M-4 and unloading a quick burst at the B.O.N.E.S. major. The shot was poorly aimed and hasty though, only one of the rounds managing to strike the trooper in the shin. Out of the corner of his eye, Zeke saw Pierce spin, draw and fire all at once. Behind them came a startled yelp of pain.

Cursing, Da Silva discharged his weapon as he fell, sending a bullet through Wesley's shoulder and another skidding across the back of Zeke's thigh. Returning fire quickly, Zeke succeeded in grazing Da Silva's forearm with a shot before he wrapped an arm around Wesley and rolled them both into the ditch. Dust and hunks of pavement pelted the Rangers as an automatic ate up the space they had occupied only a moment ago.

More gunshots rang out as Zeke and Wes dropped into the narrow ditch with dry grunts. Peeking over the edge of the platform, Zeke saw Pierce staggering backwards, one arm held tight against his left side, soaked through with blood now. The sniper was firing his pistol one-handed at the Umbrella soldier closest to the Black Hawk, striking him twice in the neck and sending him kicking to the floor but this only left him open to Da Silva. The B.O.N.E.S. major fired once, the round ripping a bloody path through Ryan's leg. With a sharp groan, the sharpshooter toppled over the side and into the ditch four or five feet from where Wesley and Zeke crouched, just barely hidden by the helipad's platform.

"Are you alright?" The lieutenant asked his friend. They were practically hanging off the edge of the AMRS now, dangling out over the jagged, spear-points that served as the tops of the cliffs lining the Arklay Mountain paths. The wind howled, cold and merciless, out on that thin ledge, forcing Zeke to yell to be heard.

"Never better." Wesley shouted back with a shaky thumbs-up, wincing as he clamped one hand over his gushing shoulder wound.

"Sit tight. I'm going to get Pierce." He said, pointing to where the fallen Ranger lay. "Cover me."

Wesley nodded grimly, taking in a deep breath and grunting softly as he leaned over the edge of the platform to open up with his carbine. Zeke heard a voice curse in Spanish and the lieutenant was off like a shot. He moved faster than a hare with a wolf on its tail, keeping his head low and the injured sniper in sight.

_Hang on, Ryan, _he willed the other man, absently wondering how much time was left in the facilities fail-safe. _Ten minutes? Eleven? No, doesn't matter. Focus on getting to Pierce, focus on not making his child an orphan. _

Bullets whizzed and snapped past Zeke's head and the lieutenant pressed himself flat beneath the helipad's overhang. A moment later, Wesley's M-4 made it's report and the droning chorus of gunfire pining him down vanished. Risking a glance, Zeke raised his eyes above the ledge to see Da Silva darting towards the chopper, his left arm leaking blood now in addition to his limp. Then the lieutenant saw something that made his throat lock as if he had tried to swallow a stone.

The blades on the Black Hawk were _spinning! _Someone had reached the bird's cockpit. Gripped by panic and adrenaline, the lieutenant surveyed the impromptu battlefield. Shank's body lay prone in the back of the freight elevator. Owens' corpse was still seeping blood and brain matter out onto the cold ground. Wesley and Ryan were on either side of him, Da Silva was still making a mad dash to the relative safety of the helicopter.

_The cleaner Pierce shot, _Zeke realized, _he's not where he should be. His _blood _is but his body's not. _

It seemed impossible. Zeke had _seen _the marksman pass a pair of .45 caliber rounds through the man's _neck._ He had _seen _the body fall. No one got up from that and yet, there behind the clear glass canopy of the chopper's cockpit was the gas-masked figure himself.

_Son of a bitch, _Zeke thought then pushed aside his awe as if it were a pile of refuse. _This is Raccoon City. Everything that happens here is impossible. _

The fact that the cleaner had survived Pierce's shooting meant little in the grand scheme of things. He was alive and he was stealing the last ride out of the city. The final flight, Wes had called it.

"The hell you do." Zeke whispered then shouted to Wesley as he took aim, "Fire on the cockpit, don't let the bastard take off!"

Shifting targets from the battered major to the Black Hawk's driver seat, the Brit opened up full auto as Zeke chimed in with his handgun a moment later. Sparks flew as the torrent of bullets bounced off the glass, screeching as they ricocheted every which way. Ducking, Zeke cursed and heard Wesley swear from a few feet away.

"The bugger is armour-plated!" He shouted.

Cursing a second time, the lieutenant crouched lower as a steady stream of lead swept back and forth through the air above his head. Da Silva was backing away to the chopper now, keeping the Rangers held down in the ditch with suppressive fire. _So much for a direct attack, _Zeke grimaced; _the murdering bastards are going to get away Scott-free and their employers with them. Meanwhile, what happens to the steady lieutenant and his loyal troops? We get to sit here and die in a ditch. A fucking ditch! The universe has one twisted sense of humour. _

Over the edge of the helipad and above the seemingly endless crack of Da Silva's AK, Zeke could hear the Black Hawk's engine powering up, roaring as it began its slow rise into the air. That sound was Defeat itself, sucking out the last remnants of Zeke's willpower. Closing his eyes, the lieutenant sighed as all the weariness, all the guilt and horror he had been holding in check for so long broke free and swept him away in a mudslide of loathing self-hatred.

_I'm so sorry, _he thought, shaking his head mournfully, _I'm so sorry, captain, Coop, Rach. I let you all down. If I had just been smarter or more cautious I could have gotten you all out of this mess but I wasn't, I'm not. I failed and now Umbrella is going to come away smelling roses after butchering an entire city. I never expected it to be like this, I never expected things to get this far south…_

Zeke blinked. _This far south. South. _Numbly, he reached into his hip pouch and removed his last grenade. _If things go south, use that, _he had told Eddie before leaving the rookie to his confrontation with Goldeneyes. An idea burned to life in the lieutenant's mind.

_We'll probably still die, _he decided, _but at least we won't go down alone. _

"Sergeant Pierce!" He called above the screaming of the Black Hawk's rotars and the rush of icy wind.

"Yes, sir!" Came Ryan's response, the tension in his tone telling Zeke the man was clenching his teeth to fight the pain.

"Can you use your weapon, soldier?"

"Yes, sir!" Pierce answered fiercely, rolling over onto his side. He was pale as death but as grimly determined as Zeke had ever seen him.

"Good. Wesley!"

"Yes, lieutenant?"

"Do you still have your grenade?"

"Bloody right I do."

"All right," Zeke said, mopping sweat from his face with the back of his hand. "Here's the plan. It's going to be a tight one."

---------- Page Break ----------

Rico only paused in chewing up the pavement with his rifle when his feet were firmly planted on the deck of the Black Hawk's passenger area. Tossing aside his empty AK-47, the major unholstered his pistol and elbowed the pilot's seat with no small manner of aggression. Or desperation for that matter.

"Get us in the air!" He hollered.

"What did I tell you before about patience, major?" Smith said, flipping switches and stabbing down buttons as the chopper continued to shudder to life.

"Patience my ass!" Rico spat. "Just get us the hell out of here!"

Smith offered no reply but that was fine with the major – he was too busy contemplating how fast everything had fallen to shit. In a matter of hours his entire squad had been exterminated, a valuable if repulsive spy had been killed, Rico himself had been injured and to top it all off that redneck Wilcott was _still _alive!

_Not for much longer though. _Rico mused with a half-grin as he felt the Black Hawk begin to rise. _Eight more minutes and then he's nothing more than another unpleasant memory. Serves the hick right. I'm going to need more stitches than a fifty-year old sofa. _

Aside from the scars he had received, the Raccoon adventure was not a complete waste. True, his boy scouts were dead and while Rico regretted their loss he had also understood from day one that they were expendable – tools to be used. As for Owens, his only purpose was to gather Umbrella's combat data and Smith now carried that so, if anything, by dying the man had served the company the expense of having to pay him – or kill him. Above all else though, they had the T-variant sample. That alone had to make the mission a success.

_Saint Jude's is in flames and soon this place will be too. _Rico's smile widened as he watched the helipad begin to fall away. _No evidence to tie this debacle to Umbrella and a fat paycheck for me. All in all, not such a wretched ending to a bad beginning. _

A heavy, concussive blast from below drew the major out of his happy reflections. A great cloud of dust had sprung into being on the helipad, radiating up and out to obscure half the landing zone. Large chunks of rubble rained to the ground. Rico frowned.

"What was that?" Smith shouted into the back.

"I'm not sure." Rico answered, straining to see through the thick mist. "Looks like they tried to fling explosives at us – maybe a grenade or something?" _What were they hoping to accomplish at this range though? _There was no time to ponder the query further though as Rico caught a hint of movement in the smoke. A figure in filth-encrusted army fatigues stood in the center of the cloud, his arm cocked back. Suddenly, the reason for the first explosion was clear. _A smoke screen, cover for them to get out of their hidey-hole. _

Snorting at the pathetic desperation of the plan, Rico raised his pistol to fire – and stopped when he saw the mist-shrouded figure lob something through the air. Even as the object sailed through the sky, Rico recognized it as an anti-personnel grenade. He swore as it landed by his foot with a noisy _clunk_.

Heart tightening, Rico scrambled for the explosive and snapped it into his palm. It was not an impact grenade, there would be a timer for the detonation, most likely a five second primary with a five to ten second back up. The Ranger who had thrown it should have known that.

_Here's your present back, you son of a bitch. _Rico thought, jerking his arm back, ready to return the soldier's unwanted gift. The chopper's blades were thinning the smoke now though and a splash of color to his right made the major pause. Stretched out over the edge of the landing pad was yet another figure in tattered, grimy camouflage. He held a handgun extended, starring down the barrel with one eye closed, an expression of supreme concentration on his white face.

"Oh sh – " Rico said before the pistol's muzzle flashed, sending a bullet through the goggle of his gas mask and out the back of his skull. The major's lifeless body teetered backwards, the grenade rolling from between his nerveless fingers to settle under the co-pilot's seat.

---------- Page Break ----------

Standing on the helipad, the dust clearing off, Zeke watched as the explosion lit up the violet sky. The Black Hawk was pulling away from the AMRS rooftop, nose leaning forward, when his grenade detonated, sending great gusts of orange flame out the sides of the metal beast. The smoldering, flaming craft was thrown forward then dropped into a death spin out over the cliffs of the Arklay Mountains. Rushing down to meet the massive craggy peaks the helicopter fell out of sight but the sounds of churning metal and crunching glass spoke of its fate. A moment later there was a second detonation.

_Nice knowing you, Major Da Silva, _Zeke though coldly as Wesley ran up behind him, Pierce's arm slung across his shoulders.

Zeke knew that he should have felt something with the demise of the Umbrella soldiers: relief, satisfaction that justice had been served and the dead could rest. On the contrary, he felt neither. All that remained in the Ranger was a yawning, bottomless chasm. All he could muster the strength to feel was the thirst for more blood, the hunger for revenge.

_There's not enough blood in the entire world to bring back Rachel or Coop or any of the others though, _Zeke thought, clenching a fist unconsciously, _but I'll be damned if I don't at least try. Hell, I already am. _

"Zeke?" Wes asked tentatively behind him. Ryan coughed softly, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth.

"Let's get out of here." The lieutenant said, taking Pierce's other arm as a plume of smoke drifted up from below. "Let's see if we can find Burke's underground train."

Together, leading their wounded comrade across the helipad, the two weary Rangers stalked past Owens' corpse without a second look at the traitor. Zeke slid the gate shut as they climbed into the lift and nodded to Shank's body.

"Check him, Wes," he said, feeling more tired than he had at any point in his life, "just in case."

Nodding, the Brit crouched down beside the Psycho's still form as Zeke hit the button for the sub-basement. Pressing his fingers to the biker's neck. Wesley waited a moment then sighed, shaking his head. "He's gone, Zeke." Gently, Wesley closed Shank's unseeing eyes.

_Thanks for all the help, big guy, _The lieutenant thought, looking down at the bearded man's haggard body as the elevator continued its descent. _Thanks for trying. I'm just sorry you thought I was worth the effort. _

Zeke checked his watch as alarm bells squealed all around him, sirens painting the lift's interior in alternating shades of red and black. _Five and a half minutes left. _

There was not much time or hope left but there was some. For the first time in what felt like ages, Zeke Wilcott had hope. _Not much but some. _

Author's Note: Here's the new update, read and enjoy. As always, please do not forget to leave a review as well. I crave the feedback. Three Days In A Nightmare will conclude in the next installment but please stay tuned for the epilogue which will follow. Thank you and enjoy.


	37. Morning

**Chapter 36: Morning**

October 3, 1998

4:50 AM

Arklay Mountain Research Station

_Hey, brickhead, wake up._

_What?_

_I said "Wake up", brickhead. Christ, clean the shit out of your ears already._

_Ben?_

_Were you expecting someone else?_

_Am I dead?_

Not by half but that's going to change if you don't wake up and pull your dumb ass off that floor. Open your eyes.

Eddie's closed lids fluttered open, he inhaled sharply, groaning as pain cut through every fiber of his body like a knife. Wincing, the young officer looked down to see the bloody ruin his right side had become. Red liquid dribbled out of three deep punctures in his ribs, his arm also dripping the crimson fluid from gashes left by steaming shards of metal. His head felt light as a balloon, his mouth packed with sand.

_You're not dead. _A voice spoke in the rookie's mind though Eddie was uncertain whether it was his own or Ben Tredd's.

"That's a pity." He grumbled, struggling up to a sitting position.

Stomping down the screaming agony in his side, fighting off the urge to vomit, Eddie pulled himself to his feet, leaning back against the wall for support. He shook his head, trying to burn away the dense mist that had settled across his brain. Where was he? Why was it so dark? How come alarm sirens were pealing like the sky was falling?

Eddie looked up from his torn side and all his questions were answered. Lying only a foot or two away was the fallen, hulking form of Goldeneyes. The giant lay on its back, its sightless visage pointed towards the ceiling. Black, viscous blood formed an expanding pool beneath what was left of the monster's head. Goldeneyes' lower jaw had been completely destroyed, leaving its immense mouth locked in a silent roar; the back of the creature's skull decorated the surrounding walls.

Memory came back to the young officer in a violent, raging tide. _Goldeneyes was charging at me and I used Zeke's grenade. Judging by my arm I'd say I was a little closer than the recommended minimum safe distance. It was right after Shank had – oh, God, Shank._

Remembering the sight of the Psycho's broken body sagging to the ground like a scarecrow with its stuffing pulled out, Eddie searched around frantically for his grungy, unkempt, wayward companion but found no traces of the big man. Relief flooded the rookie's battered, tired form. If Shank was gone then he must have survived their tussle with Goldeneyes. Seeing Eddie down and out he must have hurried topside – either to join Zeke and the Rangers in escaping or to die at the hands of the Umbrella death squad.

Whatever the case, Eddie prayed they were all safe and well on their way outside of Raccoon City, flying off into the sunrise towards freedom. Towards home. The circumstances under which they had been forced together were unimaginable and though they had spent the better part of their time together wracked by panic, dodging death and worse, Eddie still counted Zeke Wilcott, Wesley Creeks, Ryan Pierce and, most of all, the mysterious Psycho Shank, among his closest friends.

_Dead or dying, _the rookie thought, pressing his left hand to his bleeding, _they're long gone by now and I need to be too. _

As if to drive the point home, an all too familiar female voice came over an out of sight intercom, "Five minutes remain until destruction," she said. "All personnel must evacuate immediately. The self-destruct sequence has been activated. This sequence cannot be aborted."

Gritting his teeth, Eddie growled something unintelligible. How he was beginning to _loathe _that woman. _Five minutes, _he thought lurching a step forward as the ground began to tremble, the walls groaning, _five goddamn minutes to find Burke's train. Sure thing. No sweat. I ought to reach it just in time to get blown to kingdom come. Wouldn't that just be a riot? Damn it but it's hell being lucky. _

_Not like you have a choice, greenhorn. _Tredd said. _Now quit your belly aching and get moving. _

"Yeah, yeah." Eddie told his dead partner as he stumbled forward dizzily. "Shut up, Ben."

Dust fell from the ceiling overhead as the hallway shook, seeming to ripple and sway. Losing his balance, Eddie crashed painfully into the steel mesh of the elevator gate. Hissing as fresh waves of agony rolled through his side, the rookie sucked in a deep breath, steeled him self and flung the gate up. The tendrils of burning pain tightened around his ribs, reached into his stomach with the effort but Eddie deemed the discomfort bearable.

Dropping the gate closed once more, Eddie tapped the button for the sub-basement and felt the lift begin its plunge down into the bowels of the station; the belly of the beast. Another tremor rattled the alls of the elevator, the metal moaning with discontent.

_This place isn't going to last another five minutes if this keeps up. _The cop thought, easing his back against the wall and shutting eyes that suddenly felt made of stone. _The preliminary charges must be going off already. _

With his eyes closed and breathing steady, it was easy for Eddie to block out the sharpness of his wounds, the hot stinging now a cold, throbbing ache. The droning mechanical hum of the working lift was oddly soothing, a comforting lullaby for the young officer. Pressing his warm head against the cool steel wall, Eddie could feel sleep beckoning to him, urging him to seek peace in the inviting blackness surrounding his thoughts.

_Eyes open, newbie, _Tredd snarled.

Gasping, Eddie snapped his eyes open yet again. He scrubbed at his face, wiping away beads of sweat. The rookie began to tremble, his blood boiling with fever.

_Your dying you fucking genius,_ Tredd told him, _those holes in your side are literally leaking the life from you, dumb-ass. If you doze off again I wouldn't wager on you waking up, so keep your goddamn eyes open. _

Eddie nodded, for once Tredd was right. He _was _dying, succumbing to blood loss as surely as night was succumbing to day. Strangely though, he felt no panic at the thought, no fear. It was simply a fact, nothing more.

"I'll say one thing for Raccoon City," Eddie mumbled, siren lights playing off his features in the darkness, "it's sure a good cure for a man's phobias. Once you learn that there's worse things than dying, suddenly dying doesn't seem like such a serious problem anymore."

Pushing away from the wall, Eddie took a step forward – and nearly tripped. Quickly glancing down, the rookie spied something that made his heart drop and the pain in his side burn hotter, the fever in his veins near scorching now. Shank's body stood at his feet.

The Psycho was dead, his eyes closed and chest punched full of holes. Eddie felt his hopes for the other plummet faster than the lift. If Shank, the unrelenting, fearless barbarian that had kept Eddie's skin whole the entire night was dead then surely the Rangers must have met a similar fate as well.

_The cleaners must have ambushed them on the helipad, _Eddie realized with horror and rage, _then finished off Shank when he came to help them. Goddamn it! Those murdering sons of bitches are going to get away with everything they've done here – everything _Umbrella _has done!_

Fighting back tears, Eddie shook his head and cursed. _What does it matter now? _He wondered as hopelessness leapt from the shadows to seize him. _What difference does it make if I live now that everyone else is dead? I'm no coward but I'm no hero either, no crusader. I can't take Umbrella on on my own. What good is my fucking luck if those _bastards _are just going to win in the end anyway? _

Eddie started when it was Ben Tredd's voice that offered an answer. _It makes their victory incomplete, _he said, all hints of his characteristic sarcasm and derisiveness seemingly dried up, _it proves that you were willing to fight them to the very end, Ed. It proves that despite all their power, influence and wealth, their dominance isn't total. That's what it proves, Ed. _

A peculiar realization dawned on the rookie then. Tredd's voice had been with almost since the moment of his vicious death in that back alley. Always before it had taunted him but at the same time encouraged Eddie as well, forcing him to perform greater feats of survival even if it was just to spite the goads and insults of his departed partner. Now, there was no trace of the old Benjamin Tredd in that voice, it seemed as much a part of Eddie's mind as his own thoughts.

The young officer frowned. "Did Raccoon City really drive me crazy, Ben?" He asked the voice. "Were you just a figment of my imagination, my madness? Were you ever really up there, sitting in the back of my head, haunting me? Or were you just my way of staying alive, of pushing myself to go on after it seemed so much smarter to lay down and say 'uncle'?"

Ben Tredd said not a word as the lift screeched to a halt and an announcement told Eddie he had four minutes left to escape or perish, lost forever in a tomb within the Arklay Mountains. Reaching for the gate's latch, Eddie began to hum absently, unconsciously.

He hummed the first verse of the song that had become, overnight, his own personal anthem. Eddie decided then that if he got out of Raccoon City still breathing, if he never heard another line of _Luck Be A Lady Tonight _it would _still _be too soon.

---------- Page Break ----------

The creature that had been codenamed T-115 Tyrant Devourer, had been a man once, a criminal but it no longer recalled this. The Tyrant had no real memory, in truth, save for the endless physical torment that was every second of its waking existence. Nor did the Devourer possess any true pattern of thought, it was driven by urges rather than desires, fueled by two instincts that could not be pacified: _Eat. Kill. _

Upon wakening to the searing agony that assailed every muscle tendon in its mutated body, the Devourer knew it had been damaged. This time the pain went beyond the normal, grinding anguish – the Tyrant could feel gaps in its hide, feel liquid trickling from those holes. The monster's torture was double as its body went through the routine of automatically sealing its injuries.

Infuriated by the needling pain, annoyed by the screaming noises pulsating in its ears, the Devourer roared, a horribly garbled sound now that its lower jaw was missing. Lashing out, giving action to its infinite rage, the Tyrant drove its fist clear through the wall to its right. Grunting, the beast wrenched its arm free.

_Eat. Kill. _

Hunger hollowed out the Devourer's middle, only adding to the creature's fury. It lusted for the sweet warmth of blood flowing freely down its throat. It ached to feel flesh and bone being rent by its claws and teeth. _Hunt, _the Tyrant thought, if it could be considered a thought at all. Raising its head, the giant sniffed the air.

Prey had been close in this place, only moments gone now. The Devourer bellowed its frustration. Prey was seeking to escape its claws, to avoid feeding an appetite that could never be assuaged. Turning, the Tyrant marched forward in the direction of the scent.

Something wide and heavy sought to delay the Devourer, to keep it from its prey but the Tyrant paid it no heed. Swinging one massive paw, the giant connected with the object and listened to the grating sound of metal and then the clatter of something falling down a great distance until finally the clamor faded away to silence.

_Eat. Kill. _

Smelling the air again, the Devourer sensed that its prey was near but still far below it. Taking a step forward, the Tyrant dropped off a ledge and felt itself descending rapidly, cold air rushing up around it. Blind and wounded, the creature was still aware that with every inch it fell, it came closer to its prey. Closer to satisfying its hunger: that eternal agony within it, even if it was only for a fleeting whisper of a moment. The Devourer growled with anticipation.

_Eat. Kill. _

Through the black and the cold, the Tyrant fell.

---------- Page Break ----------

The Colt handgun flashed in Zeke's grip twice, blood and gray matter exploding out the back of the zombie's head from the point-blank range of the shots. Beside the lieutenant, Wesley's rifle chattered and another ashen-faced figure in a white lab coat collapsed. Adjusting his grip around Pierce's waist, Zeke and the sniper hobbled forward with the Brit guarding their flank.

The Rangers had been greeted by the virus carriers shortly after arriving underground, the undead venturing out of the shadows close to the lift with grasping, desperate hands. If Zeke could be said to be looking forward to their escape from Raccoon at all the reason would be that he was leaving behind the monsters Umbrella had cooked up in their shop of horrors - that and the absence of the stench of disease and decay pervading every aspect of the city's landscape. _ I wonder if I'll even remember what fresh air smells like. _

Zeke's first impression of the Umbrella subway system was that it was huge. The area was cavernous, sealed in on all sides by high stonewalls and a ceiling made of solid rock. Lights were hung intermittently along the walls, giving the chamber a pale, sickly glow. Railroad tracks ran down the length of the room with a platform on either side, stretching through an archway and out into a seemingly unending darkness. Resting beside the platform was a large trolley built of bolted steel panels, painted red and black, marked with the Umbrella Incorporated shield.

A cold wind blew down through the dark passage, howling like a lost spirit. Zeke inhaled its scent, noting instantly its purity. There was not even the smallest hint of blood or putrid flesh the lieutenant had become so accustomed to since entering the city. _I do remember and yet it still smells so strange, so alien. _

Clearing his mind of the pointless musing, Zeke, accompanied by Wesley, holstered his weapon and helped Pierce along to the platform, also emblazed with the Umbrella logo. The corporation was nothing if not vain, the Ranger decided. Their boots left hollow footfalls as they ran interrupted only by a shuddering crack overhead.

"This place is getting jumpy, Zeke." Wesley said, pausing beside his friend to gaze up at the roof as dust drifted through the cracks. "It's going to go up before the bloody countdown is even finished."

"Then let's not be around to see it." Zeke replied, leading Ryan up the stairs to the small train's door and sliding it open.

Large, plate-glass windows lined either side of the trolley and the Ranger found himself staring at one side of the subway's walls. Metallic pipes stood on one side, pointing down the length of the passage and Zeke assumed they were used to heat the facility during the wintertime. Snaking down from overhead was a collection of wires, held in place here and there by steel bars. The pipes rattled in place as another tremor shook the AMRS to its core.

Wesley moved in ahead of Zeke and the injured sniper, sweeping the trolley car with his M-4 before announcing that it was safe to enter. Climbing the last step, the lieutenant poked his head in to see that there was little in the way of decoration or luxury.

Padded benches were bolted to the left and right walls. Metal poles had been fixed to the ceiling and floor as support for anyone standing in the car. Zeke noted with relief the first-aid kits tucked under each bench. Umbrella had anticipated injuries during an evacuation clearly.

At the front end of the car, Wesley had found the train's conductor's area. It was nothing more than a small booth with a leather seat and control panel resting in front. The computer screen had flickered to life with Wes' opening of the door, its glow now giving his smiling face a faint blue tinge.

"These controls are as user friendly as they come." He said, examining the panel. "A bloody chimp could figure them out without having to scratch his head." Demonstrating his point, the Brit's fingers flew across the keys and the trolley's headlights snapped on, the vehicle humming as it came alive. "See?"

"Four minutes remain until destruction." The announcer's voice rang out in that infuriatingly sterile tone. "All personnel must evacuate immediately. The self-destruct sequence has been activated. This sequence cannot be aborted."

Zeke nodded to Wesley. "Get us out of here, sergeant."

Nodding in return, the Brit turned back to the controls and Zeke led Pierce into the passenger car. With a grunt, the lieutenant eased his sniper onto one of the benches and propped his feet up over the end. Ryan was deathly pale, coughing up small rivulets of blood and Zeke feared that the man had punctured a lung during their confrontation with the B.O.N.E.S. troopers on the helipad.

"Hold on, Pierce." He encouraged the other soldier, slapping him lightly on the shoulder as he knelt to retrieve the first-aid kit. "We're almost home. I'll have you bouncing your daughter on your knee while your wife chews you out about your career in no time. You've done real good, soldier, that shot you made on the roof was one in a million."

"Yes, sir." Pierce answered weakly. "Thank you, sir."

Popping open the medical box, Zeke was in the process of removing the bandages when a panicked, familiar voice shouted above the blare of the alarms from outside the trolley. "Wait!" The voice bellowed, startling the lieutenant. "Wait, goddamn it!"

Zeke looked up as Wesley poked his head out of the conductor's booth, the Brit's scruffy features puzzled, mirroring the American's. Both men had the same thought in their eyes. _Eddie?_

Hoping against hope, already aware that he should know better, Zeke raced to the train's side door with Wes at his side, fully expecting to see the young, cynical rookie speeding their way. For the first time since crash landing in Raccoon City as a part of the ill-fated mission to save the dying city, Lieutenant Ezekiel Wilcott got what he expected.

Charging towards them was indeed Eddie Gabbor, one hand clutching a side that was a burned, bloody mess. Sweat coated the man's dark face as he leapt out of the elevator, making the look in his wide eyes seem all the more desperate. When the rookie saw Zeke and Wesley standing in the trolley's doorway, though, a relieved, nearly ecstatic grin, broke out across his worn face.

"Run!" Zeke shouted, waving the young man on, his own relief at seeing the officer alive almost pushing the lieutenant into a belt of hysterical laughter. "Run, you son of a bitch!"

"Come on, lad!" Wes yelled at his side and he _did _laugh. "We don't have all bloody day, you know?"

An ear-rending _boom _echoed through the tunnel accompanied by a shockwave that forced the two Rangers to brace themselves in the doorway and knocked Eddie off his feet. Tense horror filling his belly anew, Zeke looked up to see the source of the quake. Standing atop the crumpled ruin of the freight elevator was the towering nightmare, the relentless stalker, Goldeneyes.

The name seemed highly inappropriate now though, for the creature's eye sockets were empty save for some puckered, pus-encrusted tissue. Half of the monster's mouth was gone, black blood and purple slime spilling down its chest like some kind of gruesome waterfall. Holding back the wave of nausea that invariably came with laying eyes upon the beast, Zeke watched as Eddie, sprawled helplessly on his side, turned to stare disbelieving at the approaching, unstoppable hunter.

Goldeneyes wasted no time with a plodding, methodical walk this time, instead dropping into a crouch faster than the eye could follow and rushed forward with all the power and momentum of a diesel engine. Without another thought, Zeke and Wesley exploded out of the train's doorway, hurtling towards the downed Rookie with all possible speed. Goldeneyes' running footsteps made deep vibrations along the ground, mini-earthquakes.

The two Rangers reached Eddie a second before Goldeneyes. Grabbing the police officer by shoulders and ankles, they rolled the young man out of harm's way, closer to the tracks then dove for safety themselves. Growling, Goldeneyes swept past, its claws raking through empty air.

Pushing himself back to his feet, Zeke hauled Eddie up beside him by the shoulder and heard Wesley swear as he regained his feet. Only then did the lieutenant notice his friend wielded only his pistol and assumed he had left his M-4 behind with Pierce. _Not that it will be much defense against this thing if it gets past us. _Still, Wes must have known that too.

Goldeneyes now stood perhaps three feet distant but was ever so slowly turning to face them once more. _Bunched together like this he'll rip us all in two with a flick of the wrist. _"Scatter!" The lieutenant ordered.

The Rangers took off in two directions, Wesley side-stepped to the right, closer to the train, while Zeke, supporting Eddie, drew his sidearm and moved left. Goldeneyes completed its turn and looked from Zeke to Wesley then back again. Grunting as if somewhat confused the giant made its way towards the sergeant.

The demon's broad back obscured Wesley as he stalked towards the Brit but Zeke could clearly hear the crack of his friend's handgun ring out three times. Re-acting quickly, the lieutenant fired four times as fast as he could pull the trigger. Each of the rounds smacked wetly into the back of Goldeneyes' skull. Growling a low, gurgling cry, the monster paused in its slow approach and turned to confront Zeke. Overhead, the announcer called out the three minute mark.

More shots hit the creature from behind as it marched steadily towards Zeke and Eddie but Goldeneyes would not be deterred this time. It came forward, indifferent to Wesley's slugs tearing up its back. Looking up into that twisted, mutilated face, Zeke knew the creature had its target, had its prey. Dropping low, Goldeneyes fell into its killing posture.

In the space of a breath, the giant charged and, with a shout, Zeke pushed Eddie in one direction then slid back the other way. There was a thunderous crack and the tunnel shivered as Goldeneyes collided with the opposite wall. Dust and debris were jarred free by the impact and Zeke found himself less than a foot away from the creature, staring at the tree-trunk arm buried to the elbow in solid stone.

_Jesus, _Zeke thought, his eyes traveling up the giant's leathery arm to its sightless gaze. The scarred flesh filling the demon's eye sockets stood out to the lieutenant starkly then. They were the only wounds he had seen the creature sustain that it had been unable to heal. Acting on impulse, Zeke fired from where he lay, aiming for the crust over one socket.

Purple sludge was vomited from the wound and the giant tossed its head back, screaming its violent, squelching cry of rage but still refusing to die. The wall groaned as Goldeneyes thrashed about, trying to free its arm. Darting his eyes around the station, Zeke saw Wesley looking at the mutant in horrified awe as he tried to fit another clip into his pistol with unsteady fingers. Eddie was back on his feet and reaching for the snub-nosed revolver tucked into his waistband.

_Almost two minutes left, _Zeke thought, scrambling to get his legs underneath him once more, _Time for us to go. _

"Get to the train!" He ordered, before firing at the creature once more and taking off.

Eddie was the first to obey, lowering his head and making a dash towards the trolley's open doorway then throwing himself through the portal. A gloved hand reached out to take hold of the officer's vest and drag him the rest of the way inside. Zeke all but marveled to see Ryan Pierce, battered, bloody and half-dead, appear crouching in the doorway with Wesley's long-arm in hand, firing at something behind the lieutenant.

Understanding took hold and Zeke felt his pulse quicken. Goldeneyes was free.

The heavy, quaking footsteps confirmed the Ranger's suspicions a second later. By the sound alone he could tell that Goldeneyes was coming on fast, each of the footfalls like an artillery shell going off. He could hear the creature's hungry grunting behind him, smell the chemical odor of its diseased, bleeding hide. A grating sound at the lieutenant's heels told him that Goldeneyes was brining its claws up, ready to split him from top to bottom.

The train seemed to loom on a horizon, within sight but out of reach. The trolley was close but still too far to contend with the unnatural speed of Goldeneyes. It was too far. He would never reach it before the giant fell upon him. _Now, Lieutenant Wilcott, _a voice sounded in his mind, _it's your turn to die. _

"Zeke!" Wesley called at his side and for the second time that morning, the lieutenant found himself being roughly shoved out of danger's path by his friend; stumbling and reeling towards the waiting trolley.

From behind the Ranger came the sickening crunch of flesh and bone. Wesley's shriek split the air, turning a cold knife in Zeke's heart as he tripped over the stairs and fell into the train car. The Brit's cry echoed down the tunnel, rode the cold wind then abruptly dropped off to silence once more.

"Wes!" Zeke cried out, tears stinging his eyes as he rolled over, raising his pistol, ready to defend his best friend.

It was too late though. Mortified, Zeke stared in mute horror at Wesley's body, twitching with his feet inches from the ground. Goldeneyes had skewered the man, its foot-long talons slicing through the material of his Kevlar vest to come out the Brit's back soaked with blood. Spasms rocked Wesley as the beast lifted him high in the air, his eyes rolling about to show the whites, blood bubbling out from between clenched teeth. With a contemptuous grunt, Goldeneyes flung Wesley's corpse aside, leaving streaks across the concrete as it skidded to the other end of the chamber.

_He was dead before he hit the ground, _Zeke realized. _Oh Christ, the pain he must have been in. All because of me. All because of me. _

"_NOOO!" _The lieutenant howled, a ragged sound of loss and emotional agony. Mad with grief, his desire for vengeance burning stronger than ever, Zeke launched himself forward, prepared to assault the towering beast with hands and feet if that was what it would take to avenge his friend. Before the lieutenant could make it out the doorway though, strong arms grappled his waist and hauled him back. Zeke screamed and kicked but it was all for naught. He saw the dark skin of the man restraining him and cursed Eddie with every oath he knew.

Groaning with exertion, Pierce slid the train's door closed and snapped the lock into place. Leaving Zeke's broken, weeping form on the ground, Eddie sprang to his feet and raced into the conductor's area, taking only a moment to examine the controls before flipping a switch and easing the throttle forward. Outside, the announcer's muffled voice informed them that two minutes were left in the countdown.

"I'm getting us out of here!" Eddie shouted into the back as the train rumbled and began to lurch forward.

"Wes." Zeke sobbed bitterly, striking at the floor.

Sparks showered the interior of the car as, from the other side, Goldeneyes rushed the vehicle and clawed through the sheet metal siding, peeling it open like a tin can. Steel squealed as it was torn, cool air swept over the two Rangers and then, roaring, Goldeneyes stuck its maimed, hideous face through the hole it had made.

Zeke reached for his pistol, ready to battle it out with Wesley's killer to the bitter finish when he noticed that Pierce was already moving. With the speed of a striking mongoose, the wounded sniper pulled himself into a crouch, sighting down the barrel of the M-4. In a burst of sudden memory, the lieutenant recalled the giant's reaction when he had reopened the scars that had blinded the creature.

"The eyes, Ryan!" He shouted. "Get the eyes!"

Sergeant Pierce required only a moment to adjust his aim before tapping the trigger twice. The scabs sealing the monster's eyes shut were ripped asunder once more, unleashing an eruption of dark-coloured fluids. Bellowing and gurgling, Goldeneyes spun and staggered backwards, the train gliding easily out of its reach now and up the tunnel.

With an exhausted sigh, Pierce fell onto his back, releasing the M-4. The sniper panted hard as he gazed up at the ceiling and from the conductor's booth Zeke heard Eddie blow out a breath as well before settling into the padded chair. Resting his back against one of the benches, the lieutenant scrubbed at his eyes and tried to absorb the shock of what had just happened.

Wesley, his friend since childhood, the only person Zeke had ever trusted implicitly, was dead. He had made the ultimate sacrifice to preserve Zeke and the others, to delay Goldeneyes long enough for them to make their getaway. That lone act went beyond selfless – it was heroic.

_No, _Zeke thought, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, _it's more than that. Goddamn it, Wes, I never asked you to be a hero._

A tremor rocked the walls of the train car, rattled the windows in their sills and for a moment Zeke thought the self-destruct sequence had completed itself ahead of schedule. Then he realized that the vibrations were too slight for it to be an explosion of that magnitude. There was no light from a fire either rather it was more like a tremendous weight had been dropped on the tracks, sending a shockwave out to buck the train.

_Something that weighs as much as much as Goldeneyes, _the Ranger mused absently and then his head snapped up. Adrenaline pumping through his veins with a renewed intensity, Zeke drew his pistol and climbed to his feet.

The lieutenant turned his gaze to the train's back window and saw his worst fears confirmed as, even mangled and blind, Goldeneyes stood out on the tracks, giving chase. Despite its lack of sight the giant found them easily, no doubt following the clamor of the trolley's engine, its powerful legs matching the pace set by the train. Gradually though still too fast for Zeke's liking, the monster began to overtake them, coming closer with every stride.

"Can this thing go any faster?" He yelled over his shoulder.

Eddie, too, had seen the beast and shook his head quickly, eyes wild. "Not if we want to stay on the tracks!" He answered.

"Then we fight." Zeke said with calm assurance, scooping his pistol up. "Keep us moving," he called to Eddie, "I'll go deal with our friend."

With the car bumping and shaking all about him, Zeke made his way to the back window, gripping the metal poles along the way to stay upright. When he reached his destination, the Ranger shielded his face with one arm and smashed the plate-glass with the butt of his sidearm. Taking a knee among the glass fragments, Zeke checked the Colt's magazine.

_One bullet, _he thought, slapping the cartridge back into place and cocking the slide. _All our hopes rest on one bullet. _

Simply firing at Goldeneyes would be a waste and a death sentence. Even headshots had proved to be nothing more than an annoyance to the lumbering beast, a distraction at best. Zeke began to sweat. It would take nothing short of the entire AMRS falling on Goldeneyes' skull to subdue the giant once and for all but that still was not due for another minute. Far too long.

_I need something to accelerate the blast, _Zeke thought as Goldeneyes roared, closing distance rapidly. _There has to be something left to throw at this guy. _Cold air lashed at the lieutenant's face. _Anything! _The train sped on, racing past the pipelines strapped to the wall as it charged towards freedom. Zeke blinked. _The gas lines. _

Turning his head, the lieutenant watched as the train slipped past thick lengths of metal pipes, rows of them. At first glance he had presumed them to be part of the facility's heating system. It was only a guess but if it was true…_Then those things are pumping enough compressed gas to level half this tunnel if the mainline is ruptured. _

"Hang on!" He shouted over his shoulder, turning back to take aim at the center pipe. "This is going to be tight." The lieutenant mumbled the last to himself then squeezed the trigger.

At firs there was only the ring of metal hitting metal and then the breath of a dragon consumed the tunnel. A cloud of orange-red flame filled the passage, rolling over Goldeneyes and swallowing the giant entirely. The concussion of the blast bowled Zeke backwards, forcing him to the ground. Heat crawled across the lieutenant's body, prickling his skin and for a moment Zeke thought that Hell had finally come to claim him. Ever so gradually though the blistering heat faded and the lieutenant dared to look up over the edge of the shattered window once more.

All that remained of Goldeneyes was a few bits of charred flesh plastered to the tracks and scorched tunnel walls. The blast had all but evaporated the seemingly invincible stalker. Zeke felt no remorse or no pity at the creature's demise for Wesley's scream rang all too freshly in his ears.

_Go back to Hell, _he said silently to Goldeneyes' remains as the train rounded a curve, _you murdering piece of dog shit. _

"You might want to hold on to something, lieutenant." Eddie advised as he scurried out of the control booth to sit in one corner, bracing his knees against his chest. "There should only be about fifteen seconds left in the countdown and I'm not sure we're far enough away."

Nodding solemnly, Zeke gathered the half-conscious Pierce to him and stretched his body out protectively over the sniper's own. He felt the explosion before he heard it.

It started off as the softest vibration, making the floor stutter beneath them. Then the windows rattled in their casings and the walls of the trolley shuddered as the train itself began to bounce wildly. The roaring rush of wind stole away Zeke's hearing and fierce heat singed his skin once more. The vibration grew in intensity until it seemed the whole world had to be trembling, had to be coming to an end. Glass shattered, Eddie cursed, metal rumbled and bucked. Zeke clamped his eyes shut and waited for death.

Death, however desired, did not come. The heat receded. The vibration lessened, faded. The train stopped its swaying and bucking and sped on. Towards home. Towards morning.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Zeke picked himself up off Pierce and stared down at the sharpshooter. Ryan's eyes worked themselves halfway open and then Pierce did something Zeke had never seen him do before. He grinned.

"Did we make it, boss?" Pierce asked, barely above a whisper.

"Yeah," Zeke said, managing a smell smile in spite of himself, "yeah we made it, soldier." _Not all of us, _he thought, _not enough of us. _"It's all over now," _For you two but not for me. It'll never be over for me. _ "You're going to be just fine, sergeant, just fine."

"That _sucked_." Coughing, Eddie brushed glittering shards of glass from his shoulders and pants, fresh nicks standing out on his arms and forehead. "Someone oughta shut this ride _down._"

Carefully, Zeke eased back against one of the benches and checked his watch. _Almost five AM: two more hours until Bosa's nuke arrives. Let's hope this thing takes us far outside the city._

For a moment, the lieutenant sat in silence contemplating all that Raccoon City – no – all that _Umbrella _had stolen from him. On that list were the woman he loved, his oldest, truest friend, his mentor and a host of other names. An entire city had perished to the company's greed and madness. Then, staring down at the pistol in his hand, Ezekiel Wilcott knew what he had to do.

_I can't eat a bullet yet, _he decided, _not when justice still has to be served. Not until I help all those souls find peace. I _will _become Justice and my justice will be wrath. _Zeke sighed. _Not yet though. For now, I still have another purpose. _

Discarding the empty handgun, Zeke dug under the bench he rested against for the medical kit. For the time being the lieutenant had failed in his duty to the dead but that fact alone did not relieve Zeke of his duty to the living.

Author's Note: Here's the new update my Readers, please enjoy and review. I know I said the epilogue would be after this but, sadly, I lied. There will be ANOTHER chapter coming and then the epilogue. So please stay tuned, read and review. Thank you.


	38. Aftermath

**Chapter 37: Aftermath**

October 3, 1998

5:35 AM

Outskirts of Raccoon City

Darkness was slowly giving way to light. Overhead, the black velvet sky was receding to a gradual, subtle violet, the stars winking out one by one like candles beneath a snuffer. Far below the soft canopy of daybreak marched three weary warriors, Zeke and Eddie supporting Pierce's weight as they plodded along the main road, leaving the light of the burning city behind.

_It's a funeral pyre for the dead now, _the lieutenant mused, _a fire to burn the corpses to ash and keep the disease that destroyed the flesh from spreading. It's a futile solution though. What will fire do to keep the infestation of corruption from boiling over again? What will it do to cure the infection of greed? Those two things are as much to blame for the death of Raccoon as the Tyrant Virus itself. _

Damp pavement passed beneath the Ranger's boots with each step. The air was heavy with the crisp scent of autumn rain, flooding the senses with a heady feel of rejuvenation. The wind, fresh and incredibly pure, ruffled Zeke's sweat-slick hair, brushed his skin with its welcoming caress.

Had he ever noticed those things in such detail before? Had he ever allowed himself to be swept up in the cleansing embrace of nature or had he simply dismissed the rain and the wind and the sky as simple, mundane facets of a bland reality? Zeke could not remember for the past seemed beyond recall but he understand now the uncomplicated beauty in the world around him, the slight magic hiding behind a veil of the ordinary.

It was a wonder he had taken for granted all his life.

_And I only had to go through Hell itself to realize it, _he thought, _to see all the things I ever foolishly believed would always be there – like Wes and Coop and Rachel. We're selfish that way, forever believing that there will be a tomorrow and always so surprised when it doesn't come for someone else. _

_There will be a tomorrow for me though, for me, Eddie and Ryan. We journeyed into the belly of the beast and made it out to the other side again. We survived three days in a nightmare but does that make us blessed or cursed?_

Only time would provide an answer to that question though Zeke already possessed an inkling as to what it might be. He feared – not for himself but for Eddie and Ryan – that they were leaving the recesses of one horror only to enter another. This time the nightmare would be less physical but just as real: it would be the horror of madness, the flaying of a mind.

Once they reached civilization again, were given medical attention, debriefed and went through all the protocols assigned to those privileged enough to survive a disaster, then the aftermath of the Raccoon incident would truly be allowed to sink in, take hold. It would be a beast, clawing and gnashing at the fabric of their fragile sanity, it's snarls the screams of the dying and within its eyes would be reflected all those pale, gore-stained faces so filled with panic they seemed on the verge of bursting.

Those memories, of friends and strangers ripped apart by the demonic machinations of one company's hunger for dominance would carry weight with them. Such impossible weight.

_That will come later though, _Zeke decided as they struggled up the road, _and if I break under that burden, so be it. My actions cost the lives of dozen of people and if the price of that failure is my sanity, well, that sounds like a fair trade to me. _

Of course, he would still need to be around to bear that burden and Bosa's nuke would soon be on its way. The underground trolley had deposited the three survivors about five miles outside the city, leaving them in a ditch cleverly disguised by a cluster of hills on either side. Even so, there was no telling what the payload of the missile would be and thus no room for error when it came to estimating the minimum safe distance.

"Double-time it." Zeke mumbled, just loud enough to make his words audible.

What surprised the Ranger most was how…empty he felt, how strangely calm his mind was. Then again, maybe "surprise" was not the right word for Zeke had long ago given up on feeling anything but cold, distant and detached lest the weight of his guilt drive him under. No, he was not surprised merely…amused.

_Amused that I can feel anything anymore. I've gone from fear to panic to hope to despair to betrayal and back again. My emotions should be all dried up by now. I should be a numb, wide-eyed quivering shell. We all should be._

_But we're not._

_We're still here, still breathing. Not whole but we're solid and given the circumstances, maybe that's more than we should have expected. _

_It won't last though – not for any of us. Not when the memories reach out to grab hold of our thoughts and the dreams come to terrorize us when we sleep. Not when the dead start to whisper, to scream in our ears._

_Then we'll all break down. We'll weep and vomit and jibber nonsense. We'll plead with dead friends to forgive us, begging with them to trade places with us. All that grief will hit us from the shadows, a sledgehammer shattering us to the core of our souls._

_Maybe we'll find the strength to pick up the pieces and maybe we won't. That's all there is to it. That's the price of surviving. _

"Do you think any of those things could be out here – outside the city?" Eddie panted, wiping sweat from his face with the back of his free hand.

The medical kit on the train had contained a bottle of anti-septic, a few rolls of clean bandages and a couple bottles of water but the meager provisions had done little to restore the rookie cop or Ryan back to pictures of health. Eddie's wounds were shallower than those sustained by the sniper and were already beginning to scab over but Zeke was convinced that the only thing keeping the officer on his feet was force of will. As for Sergeant Pierce…blood was leaking through the gauze and cloth wrapped around his side, leaving a trail of fat crimson drops in his wake.

"From what Sam and Kathy said, I'd almost guarantee it." Zeke replied flatly. "They told me the barricades around the city had been totally overrun so there's nothing keeping them penned in anymore and Burke did mention something about the B.O.W.s wanting to reach areas out in the wilderness. Sounds to me like Raccoon City was a cage to most of those freaks and the only reason they stuck around so long was because it doubled as an all-you-can-eat buffet."

_And we were just another item on the menu. Skip, Slugger, William – I left you all behind to become victims of that terrible hunger. In the end, you were nothing more than meat to your killers. No, not you, Skip, I gave you some mercy at least. I was your killer and you meant something to me. You were my friend. _

_Too bad neither of us knew then that all my friends wind up dead; because of me, because of my decisions. I kill them. Me. _

"Just a meal in a can, huh?" Eddie snorted. "Is that all Umbrella's little experiment turned us into?"

_That's right, Officer Gabbor, just a meal in a can: Just food to feed the wolves. _

"Well, if those things _are _out here then they're probably aching for a snack." Eddie went on. "So, that begs the question can we handle 'em if they decide to come looking our way? How many rounds do you have left, LT?"

Zeke glanced at the M4 carried loosely in his left hand. "Three or four." He said. "You?"

"One." Eddie grimaced looking at the revolver in his hand. "I guess we better shoot straight, huh?"

Zeke nodded in reply then lurched as Ryan stumbled, falling into him. Both men grunted heavily as they pulled the sagging sniper upright, his head lolling about. A weak, wet cough escaped Pierce's lips.

"Can't…can't make it." Ryan gasped. His face was a lined, contorted picture of agony. Sweat formed a perpetual sheet over the sniper's white visage, the death mask of his features.

_Not today, Pierce, I'm not letting you off that easy._

"Yes, you can, soldier." Zeke said, dragging the man forward with Eddie's assistance. "Get on your feet."

"No…I can't." Ryan insisted, unable to manage anything more than a whisper. "Too far gone now. Too far…and Bosa's nuke is going to hit soon. I'm slowing you two down. Leave me here. Just…tell my wife I'm sorry about – "

"You can tell her yourself, sergeant." Zeke growled fiercely. "When _we _get back. Together. Now stop moving your mouth and start moving your feet."

"I can't, lieutenant." He shook his head. "The pain. Hurts too much."

Anger, swift and pure rose in Zeke's heart. It was a frustrated fury, directed at the stupidity of his comrades. Why were they always so ready to be the ones left behind, the ones sacrificed. Why were they allowed to give up and he was forced to march on? He was beginning to grow sick of their nobility.

_Sullivan, Cooper, Wes and now you too, eh Pierce? Fuck you all. Fuck you all, you selfish bastards._

_Who the hell asked you to be heroes anyway? I _hate _heroes they always end up dead. That's all a hero is really – a dead man. _

_What makes their lives less valuable than mine? Why do they have to suffer the consequences for my mistakes? Why?_

Gripping a handful of Ryan's hair, Zeke tightened his hold and turned the sniper's head so he was eye-to-eye with the man. "It hurts too much?" He snapped. "What are you – a Girl Guide or an Army Ranger? You want us to dump you here, on the roadside, so you can give up and die like some punk ass washout? Fine. Quit. I'll tell your wife and little girl that the reason I couldn't bring home their husband and father was because he'd rather washout than suck it up."

"I'm no…washout, sir." Ryan snarled, blood painting his teeth red.

"No?" The lieutenant challenged. "Then get back on your feet, sergeant."

Slowly, Ryan steadied himself then, sucking in a breath through stained teeth, planted his boots firmly on the pavement once more. He swayed but Zeke and Eddie held him up.

"Now take a step forward," Zeke ordered, "walk goddamn it."

With the two men supporting his weight, the sharpshooter took a tentative step. Then another and another. Finally, the trio was moving again, this time with Ryan walking along in synch.

_Good work, sergeant, _Zeke thought his anger cooling to be replaced by relief. _You had me worried there for a second. _

"You don't get to die, Pierce." Zeke told the other soldier. "Not here. Not until I give you the say-so. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Now keep walking and maybe if we're lucky – " Eddie snorted at that, " – we'll come across a payphone and you can call home and tell the misses to expect you for suppertime."

Ryan smiled thinly. "Maria would appreciate that, sir, but I think I left all my change in my other pants."

"We'll find a quarter somewhere." Zeke shrugged.

"Maria?" Eddie inquired.

"My wife." Pierce explained. "When I'm on assignment…all she does is sit in front of the TV, scared half to death that my picture's going to pop up along with the details of my demise. I don't know what news has gotten out since we came in…but she's probably climbing the walls by now."

"Well," Eddie said, "we'll probably all be off to our interviews at Channel Five soon enough…or the nuthouse…either way I hope they give your sorry white ass a once over with a comb and a bar of soap. You look terrible, man."

"Good thing we're not on our way to the prom then…huh?" Pierce grinned.

It was the closest thing to humour Zeke had ever seen the man attempt. It was, perhaps, the first time he had ever seen the sniper flash a genuine smile. This time he _was _surprised.

Stirred from his thoughts by a sudden flare of light, the lieutenant turned towards the source. Coming up the road behind them was the vague silhouette of a tall van, made visible by the glare of its headlights. The engine rumbled gently as the vehicle moved steadily towards Zeke and his comrades.

_What the hell? They must be coming from the city…_

"More survivors?" Eddie ventured, glancing at the lieutenant.

Zeke's eyes never left the van, now starting to slow. "Or more cleaners," he replied, "a back up team in case the first one dropped the ball."

"What do we do then?"

The young officer's question was a good one, one Zeke had been wondering himself. Every plan he had lain while fighting through Raccoon had only succeeded in getting his companions killed and he meant to protect these two men who had come so far with him, who had climbed through the Abyss at his side. Perhaps some things were better left in the hands of fate anyway.

"We wing it." The lieutenant said casually.

"Wing it?" Eddie quirked an eyebrow, "That's it? That's your master plan?"

"My master plans have a habit of turning ugly," Zeke grunted. "We'll just go with the flow on this one. If they are with Umbrella then we drill a few holes in 'em and help ourselves to their ride. If they're not then maybe they'll be in a charitable mood."

_Maybe they were too charitable though, _he thought, _maybe they roamed around the city picking up everyone they could find like William's SWAT teams did. That means they could have infected in their, time bombs just waiting to go off, to transform regular people into ravenous cannibals. And we've got maybe five bullets between us. _

The van rolled to a stop a foot or so before the trio. Cautiously, Zeke backed up a step, conscious to keep the high beams out of his eyes. The driver's door snapped open, a foot touching the pavement. Eddie thumbed the hammer back on his .38.

The driver appeared and whoever he was, he did not possess the look of a soldier. At least not as far as clothes went: his jeans, leather jacket and black cap were all non-descript but there was something his face…handsome yet a dedicated professionalism lurked in his eyes. There was something odd about the way he stood as well, keeping the door in front of the right side of his body and holding one leg slightly further back than the other.

It took Zeke only a moment to realize what it was about the man's posture that set off the alarms in his skull.

"Hello!" The driver called out amiably, his British accent making Zeke's breath catch. For a moment he had thought it was Wesley speaking. "You gentlemen look like you could use a hand."

Zeke scowled, one-arming his rifle. "Would that be the hand you have resting on the butt of your pistol back there?"

The man blinked, clearly caught off guard. The hesitation remained only a moment then he nodded and moved around to the front of the van with his hands raised. A black handgun sat in a pancake holster at his hip.

"My apologies," he said, "but judging by the looks of you all I think I know where you came from and knowing the situation there, I didn't want to be too careless. I assure you I'm no threat to you or your friends."

_Judging by the looks of us? _Zeke thought. _Yeah, we must be quite the sight. Here we are, standing in the middle of the road, up to our necks in dried blood, mud, grease and mutant guts. Where else could we be coming from but Raccoon?_

"You're from the city?" Eddie asked.

The man shook his head. "No, but three of our passengers are." He pointed over his shoulder to the van.

"Passengers?" Zeke inquired.

"Yes," the man replied in his smooth, polished voice, "survivors…like yourselves I assume. I understand there's been an…accident. One involving Umbrella."

"You don't know the half of it, buddy." Eddie grunted.

"If you're going to point a gun at me," the driver nodded to the M4 Zeke had trained on him, "you could at least tell me your names."

After a moment's consideration, Zeke lowered the weapon. "I'm Lieutenant Zeke Wilcott, my friend who's a little beat up here is Sergeant Ryan Pierce and that's Officer Gabbor to my left." The Ranger made the introductions flatly before continuing. "Pierce and I were sent in with an Army Ranger unit out of Michigan to help local law enforcement with containment. Things didn't go as planned and we bumped into Eddie along the way."

"Now it's your turn." The officer said, his tone heavy with suspicion.

"Of course," the man said politely, "my name is David Trapp. I was with the Exeter branch of S.T.A.R.S. I have two others with me, also S.T.A.R.S. – at one point in time at least. We've all had our share of experience with Umbrella as well."

"David Trapp." Zeke repeated the name warily. "I've heard that name before on the news. You led an attack on the Caliban Cove Umbrella laboratory. They said you lost your job, that you're a criminal, drug addict and murderer."

"Is that what they're saying now?" Trapp sounded amused. "I've been called a lot of things in my life but never a…a drug addict." He shrugged. "I suppose it will be an adjustment, getting used to that. Murderer is fairly accurate though.

The lieutenant wondered at that for moment then caught the man's meaning. _That's right, they said he lost two of his team in that raid. So, another failed leader, another man whose mistakes hold him hostage. We've got more in common than you might think. Mister Trapp. _

"So, lieutenant," David broke in, with the hint of a grin on his face, "are you going to shoot me or could I offer you a ride? I don't expect this road will be entirely safe for much longer and your friend looks in need of some tending to. We have a field medic aboard that could take a look at him – at all of you."

It was an enticing offer, one that seemed almost too good to be true and so it made Zeke pause. The situation was _too _convenient. They just happen to make it out of Raccoon, more or less intact, and stumble across a group of misfits that been globally branded as Umbrella's arch-enemies, offering a free ride and medical attention no less? It was either a godsend or a trick.

_Fishy, too fishy. _Zeke locked eyes with Trapp, looking for any flaw in the man's sincerity but the Brit's face was unreadable. _Just kill him now and keep walking. It's the safest way. It's too risky otherwise. Just - _ Zeke shut his eyes, silencing the voice. _No, Zeke Wilcott is no murderer: not by his own choice anyway. No more killing tonight, no more death. We'll just wing it again. Leave it to fate to decide. _

After what seemed an eternity, Zeke nodded.

"We'd appreciate you picking up us hitchhikers, Mister Trapp," he said.

"David, please." He smiled, gently sliding open the van's side door.

A burly figure in a dark sweatshirt and jeans clambered out. He was tall and dark-skinned; his muscular girth reminding the lieutenant of Coop – if only a little bit. The mirthful twinkle in the man's eye seemed out of place in the face of the giant.

"Your pal's not looking so hot." The newcomer observed, taking the wounded Ranger's weight from Eddie who nodded his thanks. "What happened?"

"He was on the business end of a few bullets." Zeke answered as they helped Ryan limp towards the van. "Your passengers…the ones from Raccoon…they aren't…."

"Nah," the large man replied, reading the soldier's mind, "nah, nothing like that. They're exhausted, dirty and dinged up but nothing that would make them want to chew your arm off. Name's John Andrews in case you were wondering, David does have a tendency to try and steal the show now and then."

Wearily, Zeke nodded and together the two men lifted Pierce into the van, stretching him out across the seat. Eddie followed next, wincing as John gave him a hand up. Slinging the M4 around his neck, Zeke hopped in last, David sliding the door shut behind him.

The backseats of the van had been removed to make room for more cargo space and stretched out across the floor, huddled close together were three worn figures: a man, a young woman and a child.

The man's grime-spattered uniform named him as one of Raccoon's finest though he looked even younger than Eddie Gabbor. His hands were balled tightly into fists, his smudged, lined face shut in sleep. Zeke wondered at the young man's dreams, at the nightmares he had already lived through.

It was the woman that drew Zeke's eye next as John climbed into the passenger seat. Her auburn hair pointed to a fiery spirit but the lieutenant could not imagine how when her face possessed such a fragile beauty, such a delicate grace. Unlike the officer at her side, the girl did not doze but starred distractedly out the window not even seeming to notice as Zeke and the others piled in.

Cradled lovingly in the redhead's arms was a blonde-haired child, a little girl probably not even into her teens yet. Draped around the girl's shoulders was a denim vest that had to be at least two sizes too big. The script "_Made In Heaven_" was stitched across the back. Zeke studied the child's angelic face, serene as she napped in the woman's embrace, and decided it suited her after all. The girl's golden hair shifted as the woman passed her fingers through it with the utmost care so as not to wake her.

It was a heartbreaking sight and yet Zeke felt almost nothing, just that cold hollow in his chest. _The innocent rest, _he thought, watching the girl, _while the wicked plot. Already Umbrella's higher-ups are trying to put their spin on all this, trying to cover it up. Well, the nuke should take care of that for them but it won't end there. No sir. You left me alive, you bastards, and it'll never be over for me._

David was back in the driver's seat now, speeding down the road with John whispering in his ear. It was then that Zeke noticed the last of the van's occupants – a slender, shorthaired youth in a pea-green t-shirt and khaki pants. At her side lay an opened box of medical supplies and she crouched over Ryan who now lay unconscious, studying the wound in his side while shaking her head.

That's _the field medic? _Zeke realized with disbelief. _She's young enough to be my daughter…_

"He's bad, David." She reported to the front. "Extensive trauma, blood loss…if we get him to a hospital fast he might have a chance but even then I can't be sure he'll pull through."

"Ryan will make it." Zeke said for once a hundred percent certain that he spoke truth. "He'll make it."

"What makes you so – "

"Ryan's a good soldier," Zeke explained patiently, "the best I've ever seen in fact. He always follows his orders, does as he's told and I told him he's not allowed to die until I give the word. Trust me, you just get him to where the doctors are and he'll pull through just fine."

The girl stared at him blankly, probably thinking he had already lost his marbles but Zeke knew he was still sane. Pierce would live because he had not ordered the man to do otherwise. It was as simple as that.

"Don't worry, lieutenant, " Trapp said, "we'll get the sergeant to a hospital before the sun's all the way up. Rebecca, do what you can for him in the meantime."

Nodding, the girl – Rebecca – turned back to her charged. Gently, Zeke rested his back against the door, unzipped his vest and studied the collection of survivors for a second time as the vibrations of the van hummed a soothing melody.

Exhaustion had, at last, claimed the redhead and she too lay sleeping with her nose buried in the child's golden locks. Zeke wondered at that trio's story. What horrors had they been forced to endure, what reserves of strength and desperation had they tapped in order to survive? Could that little girl truly be considered innocent after the sights she had no doubt witnessed this night?

_Best not to think about it, _Zeke told himself but still he wondered.

Eddie sat on the other side of the van, nodding drowsily but perhaps too tired to sleep after all. Instead, he rested, staring at the revolver in his hand as if it were a puzzle to be unraveled. Whatever significance the weapon had for Eddie, it was lost on Zeke.

_So, this is all this is all that's left of Raccoon: Two cops, a woman, a child and a pair of old Rangers. This is the aftermath of Umbrella's work, of their progress. A hundred thousand lives destroyed and for what? Profit? Can even an ounce of justice be found in a world where something like this can happen?_

_If it can be found then I'll find it. I'll find it because I have to, because that's the cost of duty. I'll find it. _

Soft, slim fingers touched Zeke's arm, rolling up his sleeve and the lieutenant stiffened. Rebecca smiled sheepishly at him, offered a silent apology as she gazed into his dirt-smeared face. A small syringe was held expertly in her free hand.

"It's a sedative, lieutenant," she said, "something to help you sleep."

Before Zeke could mount any protest she jabbed the needle into his arm and the soldier cried out, suddenly terrified of what she might be injecting him with. The medic pushed him back gently though and as the drug filled his veins it washed away the lieutenant's worry. Warmth flooded him, banishing the empty, gnawing whirlpool that had been consuming him since Rachel's death.

The blackness beckoned to Zeke and he felt fear in his heart once more. Ghosts resided in that darkness now, the souls of all those he had failed along with the remembered monsters of a madman's dreams. It called and pulled at Zeke but still he refused to give in, fighting to stay conscious. Tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes.

The world began to dim. Terror paralyzed Zeke. He whimpered, no longer able to speak. _Ghost. Don't give me to the ghosts._

A cool, soothing hand touched his cheek and the lieutenant's wailing panic vanished at its feel. Calm filled him once more with that caring touch. A healer's touch.

"Don't worry," came Rebecca's voice as that small, tender hand brushed his hair back. "You're safe now. You're safe."

The words followed Zeke down into the bliss of dreamless sleep. _You're safe now. You're safe. _

---------- Page Break ----------

Bent, smoldering, crumpled steel gave way as Smith drove both feet into the cockpit-s door with desperate strength. Howling with pain, he crawled over the ruined piece of metal and tumbled onto the gravel of the cliff. The case holding the T-variant sample was clutched in a death-grip in the supervisor's right hand.

Smith's body was a study in destruction. Burn's and charred skin covered a third of him, still smoking beneath the shredded remains of his uniform. Shards of metal and glass, sharp as razor's dug into his arms and legs. The rest of the supervisor consisted of lacerations, gashes and bones shattered to powder. Even the most skilled physicians would have balked at the sight of him, bleeding his life out on the mountainside.

_I died once before, _Smith thought through the haze of his anguish, _and I do not repeat my mistakes. _

Even as the world spun in dizzying patterns, threatening to hurl him away into a realm of endless darkness, his body was healing, or trying to anyway. Ripped tendons and sinew would begin to twine together once more, opened skin would start to bind, his punctured lung would begin to heal – then tear apart once more. Old agony would fade only to be replaced by fresh waves of it.

Smith threw his head back and screamed.

_It won't end like this – not again! _His mind seethed with desperation. _I won't fail when success is one step away! Not like I did before! _

With blood shading his vision, Smith pulled the sample case close and ripped the top open with a growl. Coughing and hacking, he peered inside.

The case was padded with black foam in which rested four indentations. Three held syringes filled with a translucent crimson fluid. The fourth contained a long silver tube the size of a cigar that had been stamped with the Umbrella seal and capped with a biohazard label. Smith knew it held the same liquid as the needles. He could smell it.

_Life, _the supervisor thought as he clumsily pulled one syringe from its packing, yanking the cap off. _This case holds life. _

It had been too long since his last injection and merely placing the virus into his bloodstream would do no good, not when the damage to his body was already so extreme. Time, it was ticking away. He had to be quick. He needed an artery. _The heart. _

Without thought or hesitation, Smith fumbled his tattered vest off open and drove the point of the needle into his chest with both hands. Panting harshly he thumbed the plunger down.

Fire filled Smith's veins, the tendrils of its smoke reaching into his lungs. Pain rippled down the length of his broken body, arching his back until it seemed the man must break in two. Tremors shook him, causing him to fail and beat the rough ground. His eyes rolled; he tasted blood on his tongue. The agony went on beyond description.

There was, however, restoration in that torment; renewal within the pain. Even as he writhed and howled, Smith could feel his wounded heart beating stronger; his pulse quickening. Torn skin and muscle knitted itself back together so finely as to leave not so much as a pale pink scar behind. Bones, mere fragments and dust seconds ago, were made whole again. Then there was no more pain, only the sound of Smith's measured breathing and the drumming of blood in his ears.

_Rescued. Rescued from death's door twice by the same miracle, _the supervisor grinned. _You cannot have me, Reaper._

Smith picked himself up, dusted off his pants and snapped the sample case closed once more. As an afterthought he popped the syringe out of his chest and flung it aside.

Turning, Smith studied the smoking, battered ruin of the Black Hawk. Sticking out of the aft hatch, lolling lazily above the ground was Major Da Silva's arm. Sighing, the supervisor started off through the mountain paths, leaving the scene behind.

It was too bad about the B.O.N.E.S. team really. Da Silva may have been an impulsive, slightly imbecilic commander but he had still done a credible job of cleaning up Umbrella's messes in the past. There was no doubt that the men beneath him – his "boy scouts" – were just as good. The situation in Prague, all those years ago, might have played out much differently if not for Rico and his squad.

_They were valuable, _Smith mused, gravel and stones crunching underfoot, _but they were also expendable and that is what made them true assets. No, not assets…tools. A tool is valuable until it has served its purpose then it is discard without a thought. The world is full of tools. There will be no difficulty in finding replacements for the rash Rico Da Silva or the devious Scott Owens. _

As Smith walked deeper into the mountains, winding his way through the passes, he turned his thoughts to the confrontation on the roof of the AMRS with Lieutenant Wilcott and the other two Rangers. Surely they were all dead by now. There had been less than ten minutes left in the self-destruct when the helicopter was destroyed and the lieutenant had no way of knowing about the underground train. Yes, Wilcott and his men had gone up in a ball of fire but…doubt pulled at Smith all the same.

_I was convinced the S.T.A.R.S. would not survive the Spencer Estate and yet they did. Not all of them but far too many for me to feel any comfort now. _Smith paused along the trail, snapping the straps of his gas mask free. _Perhaps Lieutenant Wilcott has the devil's luck too. Perhaps he did find the train and made it out of Raccoon. No matter, if he did then Umbrella will know – they always know – and the lieutenant will be dealt with accordingly. Just like Redfield and his bunch of rogues are being dealt with now. _

Tugging the mask off his head, Smith set the case down, freeing up both hands to smooth back his trimmed blonde hair, his pride and joy. The supervisor reached into one of the pockets inside his vest where his portable computer and a leather glasses case rested, both miraculously undamaged. Smith removed the case and retrieved the pair of Aviator shades within. Delicately, he settled the sunglasses over his red, slitted, reptilian eyes and smiled.

In a little over an hour the sun would rise, bringing with it a nuclear dawn for Raccoon City. That particular prospect did not worry Smith for with the speed granted to him by the T-variant he would be well outside the blast radius when the strike came. After that it was simply a matter of finding a phone and calling in for extraction.

Smith began to run, knowing he would be little more than a blur to the naked eye, feeling better than he had since his rebirth after the debacle at the Spencer Mansion. He had Owens' combat data on the carriers. He had the only remaining sample of the T-variant strain. Most importantly though was the fact that he alone was in possession the results of Operation Puppet Master – Umbrella's true mission in Raccoon City.

In one night he had become the company's greatest resource. Their chief asset.

_And I am no tool. _Smith grinned. _Try to throw me away and I will snap off your hand before you can even make the attempt. _

For months now the Inner Circle had lorded Smith's resurrection over him, using it as a leash to rein him in and for months he had been forced to work in secret, keeping his plots to the shadows. No longer though. The time for hiding was at an end. With the knowledge he now possessed he could afford to move more openly.

The time had come to cast off the guise of smith. It would be pleasing to once again walk the world as Albert Wesker.

**Author's Note: ** An update at last! My humblest apologies to you, my Readers but I hit a bit of a slump and made myself scarce. I have returned though and here is the next chapter for you all. As always, please read, review and enjoy. Also, to my loyal fans, I give you all my thanks. Your comments and encouragement have kept me going all this time. Thank you for sticking with my work. This is not, however, the conclusion. There will be an epilogue to come ASAP as well. Please look for it within the next week and hopefully it will be up. Enjoy!


	39. The Puppet Master

**Epilogue: The Puppet Master**

One Week After The Raccoon City Incident

5:30 PM

Umbrella Corporate Headquarters, Austria

Rain was falling in the city, shading the sky gray and cool as the tiny droplets played a rapid beat against the plate glass window of Jackson Cortlandt's office. Some would have found the storm's melody irritating but not Jackson. To him, the rain's music was soothing, the sound of each falling drop like a warm caress across the shoulders. He sighed with simple pleasure.

Jackson sat in his high-backed leather chair watching the storm and, in turn, gazing at his own reflection. The days of his youth were long gone, there was no denying that, and the figure in the glass was bowed, thin and left with but a few wisps of white hair atop his crown. The suit he wore was finely cut but did nothing to hide his skeletal frame or the bags beneath his eyes. Indeed, if one had observed Jackson walking amongst a crowd not a one would have suspected that he was the most powerful man on Earth.

_They would look upon me and see a man incapable of crushing a nut and yet it is that same man who wiped a city off the planet._

True, it had not been he who had ordered the nuclear strike that turned Raccoon into a cloud of dust but it _had _been his virus that led to that ultimate conclusion. Yes, the release of Birkin's G-virus had been an accident but one that Jackson and the other Inner Circle members had capitalized on – turning disaster into opportunity. The Tyrant and God viruses would have needed to be tested on such a grand scale later anyway. The spill in Raccoon had merely been a blessing in disguise.

_All we had hoped to accomplish was to take the G-virus back from Birkin, _Jackson thought with a smile, _and yet we did so much more. Not only did we retrieve William Birkin's masterpiece but we carried out the Raccoon Project as well. A plan fretted over for decades, finally complete – or as close as considering the failure of Watchdog – and, thanks to the government's panicked response, all traces of Umbrella's involvement were wiped clean in the blink of an eye. _

Of course, the pie was even sweeter than that. Knowledge had been gained, more than anyone had ever dreamed of collecting in one project, but dangerous players had been removed from the game as well.

The bloated, perverse Chief of Police, Brian Irons, was undoubtedly dead, his corpse probably rotting in one of his private torture chambers long before the missile struck. The company would save a great deal now that they no longer need to dole out the cash for Irons' weekly kickback.

Mayor Warren had perished too his kind action also saving the corporation a fortune in bribe money. The man had been responsible for gaining Umbrella much of the clout it had in Raccoon and while Jackson regretted the loss of a skilled politician working for his cause, he was also aware that Warren's demise had been necessary. The mayor had been growing far too bold of late, his ambition lending him courage he would not normally have possessed and that made Warren a threat.

_A man who seeks to rise above his master must be knocked back down to his rightful place, _Jackson reminded himself. _Besides, I knew Warren. The man was a coward. He probably ate a bullet once he realized no rescue was coming. _

Best off all was the news that William Birkin and his snippy bitch Annette were dead along with the rest of their city. That duo had been a pair of wolves nipping at his heels for years and Jackson was more than relieved to learn that the good doctors would no longer be present to trouble him or the rest of the Inner Circle. The fact that he had their research as well only made the flavor of Jackson's vengeance savorier.

_With your life's work, William, I will become immortal, youthful and whole for all time. When it can be stabilized that is. In the meantime, your research and that of the Ashford's will make me rich and that is almost as good as immortality._

Time, however, was Jackson Cortlandt's enemy. He was healthy enough for a man of seventy, cancer-free and in possession of a strong heart but nevertheless he was growing ancient. Each morning found another hair missing and the bags beneath his eyes sunken in a little deeper. Sooner or later he would expire and that notion terrified Jackson, revealing that despite all the wealth and power he had amassed as the CEO of Umbrella Incorporated he was still impotent against the hand of Death.

_Not if the virus can be perfected though, _he thought with feverish hope, _not if it can be mastered and I _am _a master. I play my fiddle and the world's leaders dance. The T-virus is merely a puzzle in need of unlocking and I employ only the brightest of minds. I will discover its secrets yet and then there will be nothing left to fear. Nothing but Jackson Cortlandt that is. _

When Jackson had first come to work for White Umbrella fifty years ago, an industrious but untested businessman, he had had no idea of what the Tyrant virus would be capable of. Never in his wildest fancies would he have imagined that the strain could have the potential to grant _everlasting life! _Nor would he have dreamed that they would ever come so close to tapping that potential for immortality.

_But we have. All we need is a few more years to refine the research. Just another three or four. _

_We've already come so far. The T-variant is table, we've proved that but it's too short-term. If only we could prolong the effects…but that is where Birkin's work will shed some light. The God virus is the key we've been missing all these years._

"Mister Cortlandt?" The voice came over the intercom on his desk, disrupting the storm's soft song. It was a young voice, sweet and feminine though oddly tinged with unease. Jackson recognized it instantly.

"Yes, Amy," he said to his secretary, turning from the window to thumb down the speaker button on his phone. "What is it?"

"The…the three you asked to see you, sir," Amy replied hesitantly. "They're here now, Mister Cortlandt. They came together."

_Together? _Jackson thought, wrinkling his already creased brow. _I was expecting them hours ago…and individually at that. Odd, that trio can hardly stand the sight of one another, why would they arrive together? No matter, a stern lesson in punctuality is all they need and with the information they're carrying I would forgive them almost anything. _

"Send them in." Jackson said shortly. The door to his office cracked open then to admit two men and one woman.

The first man to enter was something of a legend among the B.O.N.E.S. teams. James Cooper, Special Agent Hunk, Mister Death – the only member of Umbrella Special Forces to be the sole survivor of every mission he was sent on. Everything about the man screamed military: his utilitarian crew cut, his grizzled, bearded face, the gray fatigues he wore, even his rigid posture.

Jackson knew Hunk's past well, knew just how lethal the man could be, the lengths he would go to to survive, and yet he had no fear of him. Hunk was a true soldier not a mere thug or mercenary like the rest of his comrades on B.O.N.E.S. and he was as dedicated to Umbrella's cause as any one of its researchers. Still, it was difficult to completely trust a man that was viewed as vulture his own teammates, someone who got off on dealing out death while escaping it himself.

_A killer is what he is though and that is what they are trained to be. Besides, Hunk is loyal, we erased the details of his past and so he is now our deadliest hound. My very own ace in the hole. _

Jackson felt less secure when his eyes settled on the woman behind Cooper though. Her beauty was unarming as was the red dress she wore, slit up one side to reveal a long, creamy leg. Her almond eyes were colored a deep brown and a hundred secrets danced beneath their surface. She smiled at the Umbrella director, flicking back strands of short, glossy hair.

_Ada Wong…what do I make of you? You're a spy, a black widow, a lover who brings her partner to ecstasy then opens his throat with a knife. You're a vulture too, in love with death and addicted to danger. _

Hunk's allegiances were all but written in stone – he owed Umbrella all he had – but not Miss Wong. She worked for the company now but was still a freelancer at heart. She would go where the money called loudest and be on the other side of the fence before you knew she was gone.

Ada was as much a mystery as the man who stood next to her decked out in an expensive black suit, tie and shoes polished to a gleaming finish. There was a superior smile smirk on his pale face, curling thin lips beneath a pair of Aviator shades. That smile knew too much for Jackson's comfort.

_So, _Jackson thought, folding his hands in his lap, _the freak thinks he deserves some finery now does he? That's rich. _

The words dripped with contempt but of the three it was Albert Wesker that made his pulse race. _Wesker – or is it Smith now? You've been using that name since I ordered you revived as if it were a cloak for you to hide your dealings beneath. Why do you need to hide exactly, Wesker? _What _do you have left that could be kept hidden from me?_

"Excellent work, Major Cooper," Jackson said to Hunk first, deciding to forego the lesson in punctuality. "I am pleased to see you safely returned to us and with the G-virus in tow no less. I was…saddened to hear about what happened to the rest of your team."

"Thank you, sir." Hunk replied plainly. "They knew the risks, sir."

"That they did." Jackson said softly. "Nonetheless, I will see you are well-rewarded for your efforts. With the retrieval of that sample you may have advanced our research by twenty years."

Hunk only nodded. He would have done the same had Jackson ranted, raved and berated him for hours. James Cooper was every inch the soldier. It was reassuring, Jackson thought, to know there was at least one person he could count on to follow their orders to the letter.

He turned his cold eyes to Ada and sneered. "You, Miss Wong, I am less pleased with." Jackson's tone was a hiss, the rattle of the serpent's tail before it bit. "We sent you in after losing contact with Major Cooper and yet you still failed in your task. Lucky for you the major was able to find his way out of that buzzard's feast after all or we would have squandered a very important opportunity." Placing his elbows on his desk, Jackson studied Ada Wong coldly over steepled fingers. "You failed to secure a sample of the G-virus so, tell me, what _did _you accomplish in Raccoon to earn your fee?"

If she was discomforted by the sight of Jackson pushed so close to rage – as she should have been – the woman gave no sign of it. Rather, she smiled sweetly.

"As you must know by now there were survivors of the Raccoon Incident." The spy spoke in tones as smooth and alluring as freshly spun silk. "One of those survivors was a police officer – Leon Kennedy. Trent has recently discovered that he escaped the city with Redfield's sister, Claire. I met him as well and I believe I made a certain…connection…with the man that could be of use in hunting down the rogue S.T.A.R.S."

Jackson said nothing, only scowled at the woman in open disgust. _A spy…and a slut too by the way she speaks. How exactly did you make this "connection", I wonder. Did you sleep with the man in the middle of that bloody necropolis? I wouldn't be surprised in the least if you had, my dear, I have read your file after all. I know the lengths _you'll _go to so you can survive as well._

"How do you plan to _use _this…connection, Miss Wong?" Jackson asked roughly. "No one knows where this man – or the others that made it out with him – _is. _Yet. Your 'connection', as it stands, is worthless."

"I'll find him." Ada replied with solid confidence in her eyes. "I'll find him and when I do I'll make sure I'm very, very convincing in my interest to renew our friendship." She flashed a sultry smile.

Jackson snorted, reviled by the woman's lack of shame. _I don't doubt you will be at that, Miss Wong. I almost pity the poor fool, you truly are a poisonous thing aren't you?_

"Very well," he conceded at last, "feel free to use your ties to this young man to get whatever information you need in hunting down the rest of his friends. Pair yourself up with Agent Hunk, you'll be working together on this." _So I know there's someone around to keep an eye on you. _"Assemble a team – take whoever you need. I want this band of radicals found and snuffed out as soon as possible. Understood?"

The two nodded but that secretive, damnable smile never left Ada's lips. Jackson felt his unease with the woman growing. If she did turn out to be a threat he would have to call upon Cooper and take steps towards her permanent removal. It was a shame to lose a valuable gaming piece but sometimes there was no help for it.

"Wesker," Jackson said the name with equal parts admiration and suspicion as he turned to the man, "I hear your mission in Raccoon was a resounding success. The loss of Major Da Silva and his squad was regrettable but I'm sure we'll have no problem in find worthy replacements. Tell me, what were your findings on Puppet Master?"

"The project was a success." Wesker replied cold and stale. "It appears that the more advanced T-carriers are capable of excluding certain targets from their aggression. I witnessed both the Forest Keeper Hunter series as well as the Tyrant Devourer come into direct contact with Da Silva's men and bypass them completely. The research staff did an excellent job of programming the creatures to recognize and avoid B.O.N.E.S. personnel. They _can _be controlled, sir."

Jackson came close to smiling at that little tidbit. The main flaw with the Tyrant virus was that it made its host utterly unpredictable, the mutation bringing with it a beastial wildness. The carrier became lethal, fearless and nigh unstoppable but at the price of control. That much had been revealed after the debacle at the Spencer Mansion and the implications had been disastrous for Umbrella as a whole. No one would pay a penny for soldiers that were just as likely to tear their own ranks to pieces as those of the enemy.

_Not now though, _Jackson thought with a small grin. _We've progressed by leaps and bounds since the Spencer affair. Puppet Master has shown that with proper genetic coding the carriers can be held on a leash of sorts. They have gone from mindless animals to focused killers, living weapons. _

_We will have to start the bidding in the billions when we finally put the T-virus on the mark – and G as well. How much would man pay to be invulnerable?_

"The recovery of the T-variant will help Puppet Master as well," Wesker continued, "at least in human subjects the mutation will be more controlled." He flashed a grim smile. "I'm living proof of that much."

Jackson could only nod for it was the simple truth. Wesker was more than just proof though he was a proto-type. The first and only host of the T-variant strain, what the project staff was calling Genesis for it had begun a man's existence once more.

Genesis had still been in its experimental stage when an Umbrella clean-up team that was surveying what was left of the Spencer grounds had recovered the body of Albert Wesker. No one had truly expected the strain to work but the project needed a test subject and who better to fit the bill than a man the rest of the world considered dead and gone? The results of that experiment, first started as some low-level virologist's hypothesis, had been remarkable. A modern day phenomenon.

Not only had Genesis restored Wesker to life, it had – _advanced _him, improving upon billions of years of evolution in _moments: _he became faster, stronger and more agile than man could ever even _hope _to be! There were some side-effects, of course, leaving Wesker somewhat more monstrous than he had been – and not just the strange coloring of his eyes either, the man was as frigid as an ice-storm now and twice as calculating as he had ever been – but it was a small price to pay for all the benefits gained. No, Wesker was not less human really he was _better _than human.

_He is proof of more than just the potential of what the T-variant can do as well. He is proof that science can undo the hand of God._

Nevertheless, Jackson did not trust the man as far as he could throw him. Albert Wesker was a man of cunning; a creature of plots and such a creature did not garner trust. Jackson was even more wary of the man now that Genesis had become such a troubled project. Shortly after Wesker's resurrection someone had smuggled the only other sample of Genesis out of the lab, requiring additional samples to be replicated at the facility in Raccoon and the outbreak had complicated the matter of its transfer.

Surely the theft had to be an inside job but Jackson's list of suspects was small. Only the development team had access to Genesis – barely twenty men and women – and the whole thing smelled of Wesker's hand somehow. If anyone could make something vanish without a trace, Jackson would stake his money on Albert Wesker.

_Why though, that's the question. No matter, we'll find the party responsible in time. I'll speak with Trent about it, he's helped route out traitors in the past. _

"Excellent work," Jackson said to Wesker, "I trust you've turnover the sample along with the Puppet Master data to the appropriate divisions."

"Actually, sir," Wesker replied, his smile showing all-white teeth, "I haven't."

"You haven't?" Jackson snarled, feeling his hackles rise. _What new game of yours is this? _"May I ask _why?" _

"You may." Wesker nodded after a moment and Jackson glared at him. As if he needed the…the…_mutant's _permission! "You see, Jackson, the nature of our business relationship has changed. Mostly thanks to your own personal senility and for that I suppose I should thank you."

"_MY SENILITY?_" Jackson boomed, slamming his fists down atop his desk. "How _dare _you!" His voice was so loud it grated his throat raw. "_What _is the _meaning _of this insolence, Wesker? _Who the hell do you think you are?" _Jackson began to pant, his lined face burning with high color.

"I think I'm the man holding all the cards," Wesker said plainly, no longer smiling, "and you're the man who put them in my hand."

Jackson bounded to his feet, fingers curled into fists. _"Stop babbling!" _He roared. "_Explain yourself at once!" _

"You underestimated me, Jack," Wesker said, taking a step forward, "or perhaps you underestimated all of your pets running around Raccoon. You knew what they were capable of but even you didn't expect them to be _that lethal _– not against B.O.N.E.S. soldiers at least."

"You don't know what you're talking about." Jackson spat.

A chill began to creep into the old man's blood as Wesker neared. Albert had never dared defy him like this before, not so bluntly. Something was wrong here. Hunk and Ada spread out, boxing him in behind his desk. Something was _definitely _wrong.

"Don't I?" An eyebrow crept up over the ridge of one tinted lens. "I know that Watchdog was supposed to be carried out by U.B.C.S. supervisors yet you planted Owens in Rico's squad to collect the same data. Why?

"I think it's because you knew a bunch of unwashed soldiers of fortune would be no match for your playthings but not a tried and true mole like Scott Owens, a real pro. He was the trick up your sleeve, wasn't he Jack? He'd bring you the report on Watchdog, I'd deliver the write-up on Puppet Master and Rico would drop the sample right into your hot little hand. That way, all the goodies would be spread out, keeps them from being de-centralized and allowing certain people to get ideas about…extortion into their heads."

"That's nonsense." Jackson growled though the lie sounded weak on his lips. "They were expendable, all of them. That's all they were."

Wesker laughed. "No, Jack, I don't think so. You see, I've been listening in on your board meetings with the rest of your – what's the name for your cute little cabal again? Oh, yes, the Inner Circle. I found out something interesting. You were actually _against _sending in the U.B.C.S. to handle Watchdog, didn't think a few squads of rapists and murderers would last long enough against pure-bred Umbrella monsters." Wesker's grin was malicious. "You wanted to square those beasts off against the cream of the crop, elites – Army Rangers."

Jackson staggered, feeling suddenly faint. His chair clattered to the ground as he backed up into it. How did Wesker know? There were only four members on all of the Inner Circle and none would have been so foolish as to trust this monster with its secrets. _How much does he know? How much?_

"Unfortunately for you," Wesker went on, "the rest of those geezers shouted you down. The U.B.C.S. still went in but that didn't stop an old cat like you. You pulled some strings, planted that mole, called up your buddies at the Department of Defense and what do you know? The Army Rangers are heading in instead of the National Guard! Sure, I bet Sidney and the others were suspicious of the government re-action but there's no way they could pin anything on you. Once again, Jackson Cortlandt walks away smelling like a rose."

"How…How do you know this?" Jackson's voice was a deathly whisper.

"Indirectly." Wesker answered simply, taking a seat on the edge of Jackson's desk. "None of your pals are dumb enough to share anything with me – being the second class citizen that I am but your friend…I think his names is Gables, well, he was a soft spot for pretty girls – especially ones that are willing to crawl beneath the sheets with him – and he likes to talk about all kinds of things after riding those poor girls. Even matters he should keep private. Right, Miss Wong?"

Ada smiled softly, nodding. "He was quite forthcoming. All I had to do was ask."

"Don't be too hard on him, Jack." Wesker said. "You'd have told her the first time you had a dirty dream if you had been the recipient of her charms too. Especially if you were as fat and bald as Gables."

"This means nothing!" Jackson snarled at Wesker though his eyes were fixed to the whore. She had become Eve to him, the destroyer of Paradise. "All the U.B.C.S. personnel died in Raccoon. Da Silva died in Raccoon. Owens died in Raccoon. They're all dead. _Dead, dead, dead! _Watchdog failed."

"Ah, a dangerous assumption," Wesker murmured, "especially considering this."

He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and slapped a heavy black object down in front of the Umbrella director. It was a mini-computer, the small screen glowing and filled with text, the heading read: _Concerning Operation Watchdog._ Jackson could almost _hear _the blood draining from his face.

"You have it," he mumbled, disbelieving, "you have it all."

"That's right." Wesker nodded. "All of Owens' findings are on that little beauty." He snatched the device back. "As for the variant sample, I've stored it somewhere safe and the G-virus too – though in a separate location. Of course, with Owens dead I'm the only one with the Watchdog information, oh, and let's not forget the technical data for Puppet Master as well."

"This doesn't mean anything," Jackson glowered defiantly. "I can take it all from you – you and your _slut _there. I don't know what you have planned but you don't know who you're trying to screw with this time. I've buried everyone who's ever come after me before! You think this is the first I've ever been extorted before? Oh no, not the first but those that have tried it before have all been dropped to the bottoms of very deep rivers in _many _small pieces! I have resources and contacts you can't even imagine! I – "

"I had hoped it wouldn't have to come to this." Wesker sighed. "Sadly, you've proved to be just as stubborn as always. Agent Hunk, if you would be so kind?"

Faster than the eye could follow, Cooper drew a silenced pistol from the back of his waistband and pulled the trigger. Glass shattered behind Jackson as the bullet hit the pane dead center, the crash making the old man jump. A thousand shards of broken glass tumbled down forty stories, glimmering in the starlight like snowflakes.

"Wha – " was all Jackson managed before Wesker seized his neck in one hand, fingers digging into his windpipe without mercy. Coughing and choking, Jackson clawed uselessly at his wrist.

Lifting Jackson out of his seat as if he were a child, Wesker began to drag him back. The Umbrella head scratched and kicked and squealed but it did him no good. He was inevitably pulled backward to the dark chasm where his window had once rested.

_Foolish old man! _His mind screamed at him. _You thought you could trust Cooper and look where it's gotten you now! Trust and you leave your back open for the dagger. Trust is just another name for death. _

Death, Jackson had feared it every waking moment of his life but never before did he think it would happen so abruptly, so violently. He had always thought of death as a sneak, an assassin that would emerge from the shadows of old age and claim him. Now he saw that death was a rabid beast, ready to bite the flow of a man's life in two at any moment.

There was fear in the Umbrella director as Wesker dragged his dangling feet across the floor but underlying it was a sense of supreme irony. He would die now, dashed to bits on the pavement below, when eternal life was so close at hand. He had the God virus within reach. It was not fair. They could not do this to him!

_Stop, _he willed Wesker silently as he tried to speak but could manage only a gurgle, _stop. I was supposed to be immortal. Stop! _

Jackson's eyes were wide and pleading but Wesker paid the man no heed as he thrust them out over the edge. Rain pelted the director, each droplet a stinging slap to the face. Empty air reached out below Jackson, the darkness below seeming empty and infinite. If he fell, he would fall forever. Behind Wesker, Ada and Hunk watched with cool, implacable faces.

"You see, Jack," Wesker said not flinching an inch as Jackson clutched at his wrist, digging in his fingers, "we don't need you. I could just as easily hand over the samples and information to Sidney or Reston or even Ada's good friend Gables but, well, you do a pretty decent job of running this ship and my stance is that if it's not broken don't fix it. Now, I'm willing to propose a deal and I hope our current…situation shows you how serious I am."

"I _made _you," Jackson choked out through Wesker's crushing grip. "I can destroy you again."

The fingers around his throat began to slacken. "Oops," Wesker grunted, "seems all this rain is making my hands slippery. If you insist on wasting all this time making idle threats my arm just might give out. You're pretty heavy for an old guy, Jack."

Jackson wanted to howl. He was Jackson Cortlandt, CEO of Umbrella Incorporated, a man whose ill temper made the leaders of the world quail – and now he was nothing more than a helpless old man being dangled out a window and mocked by the very monster he had created.

"Alright!" He gasped after a moment. "Alright. What is it that you all want from me?"

"A chance to retire, sir." Hunk said, appearing at Wesker's side. His eyes were strangely sad, a bizarre look to see on the face of a man who had spent the better part of his life guarding his emotions behind a mask of stone. "I want a chance to hang up my gun and walk away. I want to disappear, sir, to start clean."

_Traitor, _Jackson glare at the man, _all you deserve is a quick death – let that show you my generosity! _

"My goals and those of Miss Wong are not so simple as those of Major Cooper," Wesker said, "but they are no less related and require the assistance of a man of your station. Now, you can either help us and if you do I assure you that the research on the G-virus will go forward and you will outlive the stars, _or,_" his grip loosened, "your blood can decorate the parking lot below. It's up to you, Jack."

_What choice do I have? _Jackson wondered as he dangled there, suspended over a pit of doom. _I should have let him die – I should have had them all killed but it's too late now. He wants my power, my influence…everything…and I'll give it to him. Oh yes, I will. Anything to survive, _anything! _I was supposed to be immortal!_

"Anything you want," Jackson wanted in a rush, "it's yours. It's yours."

"Good boy, Jack." There was no humor in Wesker's smile as he hauled the director inside and tossed him casually into his chair.

Jackson could do nothing but stare ahead mutely. In an instant he had surrendered all he was to a madman, to a conspiring monster, all to eek out a few more years of life. The most powerful man on Earth now sat powerless, a frightened, impotent old man too horrified to even sit up straight. The king had been dethroned and a Lord of Insanity now ruled.

_The puppet master, _Jackson realized with cold dread, _now finds himself a puppet and learns that his strings have been clipped and he lays helpless. _

Wesker's haunting laughter echoed in his skull.

**Author's Note:** At last, the conclusion! I'd like to express my endless thanks for all the fans of this story who inspired me to keep on trucking each and every chapter. Your feedback is what keeps me going so please give it here as well. To all my Readers, I hope you've enjoyed this work and please know that the story doesn't end here. I'm conflicted about what to write next though, I have ideas for a sequel which will bring Zeke, Pierce and Eddie back into the picture but I also have plans for another Raccoon outbreak fic, taking place at the same time as this one and featuring a new original cast with some cameos by the characters of this. Let me leave it up to you, my Readers. Which one would you like to see more? Do you want Zeke and his crew back or would you rather see a new adventure? Let me know. Read, enjoy and most of all, review!


	40. Author's Note

**Author's Note**

Hi all. It's been well…forever. I apologize for the long delay but I've been lacking some inspiration in this category. I can't believe I'm still getting reviews…and positive ones at that! It's your support that keeps me fueled so for all the fans…thanks. Anyway, seeing as it's Christmas time I thought I'd give you guys (if anyone is still out there to read this) a little present. I'm going to make good on that other author's note from way back when. A sequel is coming…sort of. You'll see what I mean soon. I'll try and get the first chapter of the new work up on here by Friday. Thanks again to the fans…you rock. Oh and before I forget…Merry Christmas!


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